


'Tis The Season

by effulgentcolors



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bakery, Alternate Universe - Bookstore, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Hospital, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Angst with a Happy Ending, Breaking Up & Making Up, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Co-workers, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Famous Captain Hook | Killian Jones, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Gift Giving, Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, Long-Distance Relationship, Miscommunication, Pen Pals, Romance, Travel, Writer Captain Hook | Killian Jones, daddy killian, mommy emma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-01
Updated: 2017-01-18
Packaged: 2018-09-03 15:30:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 69,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8719126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/effulgentcolors/pseuds/effulgentcolors
Summary: 25 Days Christmas Romance Challenge. 25 one-shots of love, laughter, fluff, Christmas trees, gingerbread men and Captain Swan galore.





	1. A Pirate Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 25 Days Christmas Challenge||Day 1: Character A and Character B, sworn enemies, are chosen to prepare the company Christmas Party.

“Pirates.”

“Excuse me?”

Her eyes don’t boggle. Not exactly. But the message in them is plain to see anyway – _you are a nutjob._

“I said ‘Pirates’, Swan,” he actually has the gall to roll his eyes at her after doing little more than _hissing out_ her name.

And everyone knows the eyeroll is her patent move. His is… the stupid eyebrow thing.

Like you can literally tell what he is thinking by the way his freaking eyebrows move. When he is amused but trying to hold in his laughter, it’s this gradual, semi-seductive, semi-impressed arch. When he is annoyed, it’s this sharp thing, his eyebrow spiking in the middle, fast and unforgiving. When he is genuinely worried or offended, it’s this slow, barely there twitch, almost like he wants to keep his face completely frozen and impassive but the damn thing doesn’t listen even to him. And when he is being an ass, plain and simple, it’s this wiggly, taunting and fluid motion that drives Emma up the bloody wall. The others she has seen on occasion but that last one, some deity above help her, she has to deal with that every time she sees him.

“I heard what you said, Jones,” she makes sure to enunciate his name as clearly and evenly as possible, just to show that she is not petty enough to _hiss_ at him. “I just decided to give you a chance to realize how fucking ridiculous it is on your own.”

Alright, so maybe she is a little petty.

“Oh, I see. Of course. And what brilliant ideas does Her Pretentiousness have exactly?”

At this Emma has to close her eyes for a solid 5 seconds. She has to count those seconds, breathe them in and remind herself that once upon a time she didn’t want to strangle Killian Jones. Once upon a time she actually quite liked him.

///

4 months earlier

He is… well, he is damn nice is what he is.

It’s a weird way to describe her newest co-worker. Thing is that Killian Jones is obviously one of the hottest humans on the face of the planet. Like, it’s not even up for discussion. Emma, Mary Margaret and Belle were all unanimous on that one and that was saying something, seeing as Belle has been playing for the other team for years now, MM has been madly, blindly, sickeningly (Emma liked to pretend they didn’t melt her heart daily, ok?) in love with David for even longer than that and Emma… well, Emma would rather never have another hot cocoa in her life than admit that a man had made her stare with her mouth hanging slightly open.

But Killian Jones had.

He had strolled into their bakery one day, not only unrealistically attractive but also with his guitar and his genuine smiles and his compliments and his flirtatious-but-somehow-not-sleazy pet names. And the rush hour was in and they were _really_ struggling and he just rolled up his sleeves after his interview and started helping even though MM told him he wasn’t hired yet and he wouldn’t be paid for it and it wouldn’t guarantee him the job. And he stayed until closing time, when the boss had long since been picked up by her Prince Charming and serenaded Emma and Belle while they put everything in its rightful place.

And he just… he was so genuinely nice. Which was why Emma had been fooled into admitting all the other stuff he was. Out loud. Over drinks with the girls.

Yeah, she had made a right fool of herself.

///

“It’s a _Christmas_ party, smartass. Not many pirates going around sharing their treasure in December.”

There is the amused/impressed arch but he is trying real hard to suppress it. Actually she can literally see the battle in his eyes (no, she is not gonna talk about his eyes, _thank you very much_ ).

He seems to lose.

“Well, why not?” he sighs eventually, almost on the wrong side of whiney and obviously bother by whatever he is about to say. “That’s… that actually does sound like a brilliant idea. Instead of a Santa we get a pirate Captain. Not a Jack Sparrow, mind you, more the good classic stuff. Captain Hook maybe. A far more stylish red coat, you must agree.”

He looks so damn _giddy_ at the very idea that she can’t keep in a chuckle, no matter how hard she tries.

It’s just so damn unfortunate. To this day Emma Swan has no idea why Killian Jones hates her.

///

3 months and 2 weeks earlier

Mary Margaret was mostly looking for a person to help Belle handle the weekends. Since Emma firmly refused to work on days meant solely for lazing around in your pyjamas. But for his first two weeks at _Snow White’s Bakery_ (yeah, don’t get her started) Killian needs some guidance and supervision so he works during the week and often happens on the same shift as Emma.

Those are the two most flustered weeks of her life and she works in a bakery.

And, damn it all, if they are not two of the best weeks of her life as well.

He is good with a ball of dough. He is even better with customers. Especially with little kids. _Especially_ with females of all ages but Emma prefers to focus on the former.

He is merciless in his teasing except when he isn’t, when she is flushed (not in a good way) and tired and quarrelsome and he zips it and just works his ass off so the crowd can disperse and she can breathe easily again.

He is thoughtful in the way he doesn’t use the top shelves they’ve never filled because none of the girls can actually reach them.

He is funny and he has damn good taste in music. (She loves Belle and MM to death but if she has to listen to one more Mariah Carey playlist…)

His smile is kinda the sweetest thing she has seen and again _she works in a bakery for Heaven’s sake_!

So Emma lets herself smile too and laugh and tease and flirt for two weeks. Throwing caution to the wind because it has been a damn long time since she felt so _sure_ about someone.

 She really should’ve known better.

///

“Look,” Emma sighs and finally opens her eyes. “Can we just cut the crazy pirate talk and discuss how we are gonna organize a small, no-fuss, no-glitter _Christmas_ party for our colleagues and distributors and their families and plus whatevers and just go home? Sitting here at 9pm, refuting your ridiculous ideas isn’t exactly my idea of a good Friday night?”

“Well, that’s no secret to anyone,” he mutters darkly and it’s the slight, hurt twitch this time.

“Excuse me?”

“Forget it, Swan. How about you write down what you want to do and I’ll make sure to execute it according to your instructions. You’ve been here longer, you know those people better. I can’t comprehend why Mary Margaret –

“No. No. You’re not just brushing this off again.”

“Brushi-“

“I don’t have a damn clue _why_ you hate me so damn much but I sure am not gonna let you make it out as if it’s somehow _my_ fault!”

“I- what?”

He looks so utterly bewildered, under any other circumstances Emma might have found it funny. And then-

“Why the bloody hell would you think _I_ hate _you_?”

///

About 3 months ago

When Killian’s basically as ‘in tune’ with the bakery’s workings as any of them, MM schedules him to do what she always intended for him to do. Cover weekends with Belle.

And for the first time ever Emma considers getting up at the crack of dawn on a weekend to bake pretzels and muffins.

She is about to ask MM what the weekend schedule is like on a slow Tuesday when her boss comes into the kitchen gushing about how sweet Killian was. Apparently she was greeted by a bundle of daisies and a new cupcake recipe on Monday morning.

Emma smiles, an almost proud little quirk of her lips. She is well aware of how cute Killian Jones can be.

But next week Belle seems to be giving her strange looks and it takes her two days to tell Emma that Killian left two concert tickets for her, apparently accompanied by a rather gentlemanly note requesting her company.

Emma smiles, although a bit uncertainly. Killian and Belle are friends. Maybe she was hoping that once their shifts didn’t overlap, he’d seek _her_ company in different ways. But, hey, people could have more than one friend. Yet… she postpones asking MM about the shifts.

Monday she comes in to take over for MM and sees her rushing out, saying she and David are going to grab lunch with Killian. Gentlemanly notes and sweet recipes and all that.

It’s nice. Lovely, really. _It’s never for her_.

It takes two weeks for Emma to see Killian again but in that time she has _heard_ plenty. But she is willing to accept that after all the time they spent together at first, he was just trying to bond with his other coworkers.

But Killian comes in on a Friday and looks surprised to see her there and avoids her eyes and smiles at Mary Margaret instead. And that’s when all her bullshit, that Emma had been trying so hard, _so_ hard dammit, to keep at bay, hits her full force.

And she’d managed to delude herself for weeks. _Idiot._

So when he says ‘Hi’, she says ‘Oh, hey, forgot you worked here’ and when his hurt look turns into a snarl/smile thing, she thinks good riddance and doesn’t mourn the smile of Killian Jones. Not at all.

///

“Well, don’t you?” she almost shouts at him and intends to stop there (she really, really does, she really _wants_ to stop there) but he just looks at her with his mouth slightly open, dumbfounded and lost and it makes her so _mad_. “It just kinda sends that message, you know? Never speaking to me again once you didn’t _have to_. Never asking me to your stupid gigs or- Not that I _want_ to go-“

“Yes, I’m well aware, Swan. Perhaps you should consider that’s why I don’t invite you? Because I got the message loud and clear that you _didn’t want to_.”

“What message? You never even _asked_?”

Killian’s eyes grow to what she would have consider dangerous proportions and he takes a step towards her, seems to almost choke on what looks very much like indignation.

“I never- Are you completely _daft?_ ”

“ _Excuse me?”_

“No, I’m done _excusing you_ tonight, Swan!” and now he is not indignant, he is downright angry, and right up in her face. “You know, I’m not a bloody idiot. And I’m also not a caveman. I can take no for an answer. I just like to be actually given that answer. Not _mocked._ ”

“Wh-what?”

“You could’ve simply told me not to bother you but you decided to make a fun little game out of it, didn’t you? Send your friends to jerk me around and see how long you could keep it up?”

“What are you talking about?” she outright yells because he is making no sense whatsoever.

“You know what I don’t get. How you got Belle and Mary Margaret to play along ‘cause I sure as hell know those women don’t have a mean bone in them and-“

“Play along with what?! Jones, what the ever-loving _fuck_ are you talking about?”

“I…” for the first time since he’d stepped nose-to-nose with her he seems to be at a loss for words, fuming still, no mistaking that, but perhaps too damn agitated to form actual words. “Everything!”

“What _everything_?”

“The flowers, the notes, the tickets. I mean,” he runs a shaky hand through his hair and the fight seems to drain right out of him with one last, not-at-all-well-suppressed twitch of his stormy brows. “Maybe I overdid it and it would’ve been fine if you’d just told me to back off but… Bloody hell, Emma, sending other people in your place was just… I didn’t rightfully know what I’d done to get a slap like that.”

“What… I… You did those things with Belle and MM. _Not_ with me!”

Killian frowns and looks at her like he is tempted to drag her to a hospital to get her checked out. She is damn tempted to do the same. To him.

“No. I… They were for you… How-“

“How were they for me when I wasn’t there?!”

“What do you mean you weren’t there?”

“Well, jeez, Killian, if you wanna leave flowers to the girl that opens up on Tuesday maybe not leave them for the girl that opens up on Monday!”

“But we… we always opened on Monday…”

“No, we… _Oh!_ ”

Emma’s eyes widen with horror and her hand flies to her mouth and she thinks she might be about to scream or cry but instead – she laughs. Admittedly, a hysterical sort of thing that has nothing to do with her real laugh but… for some reason she can’t stifle the ludicrous giggles.

“Oh. My. God.”

“Yeah, that’s what I meant about the mocking,” mutters Jones and he is half way to the door by the time she manages to get herself together and run after him and fix this whole bloody mess.

“Wait! Killian, wait, dammit!” she grabs his elbow and spins him around and he grunts in protest but turns anyway.

She is really, really sorry for the fact that she can’t stop her mouth from twitching up every two seconds but hey! Maybe Killian Jones doesn’t actually hate her and she just found out so Emma thinks she can be excused this one more time tonight.

“We switched schedules,” she says, evenly, almost gravely, staring him straight in the eyes.

“What does-“

“No,” she honest to God slaps a hand to his mouth and if he didn’t look so damn offended, she might have time to think about how warm his mouth is under her palm. “Killian, just shut up for a second and let that sink in. After you started working weekends, the girls and I switched around our schedules.”

They stand like that, five feet from the door, less than a foot from each other, her hand over his mouth and her eyes boring into his and her mouth trying not to let on what she is hoping for with its stupid _twitching_.

“So B-“

Emma moves her hand when Killian tries to speak again, quick but not quick enough not to feel the puff of his breath against her skin.

“So…” he clears his throat, scratches behind his ear, shakes his head as if he is still trying to assimilate the new information and Emma is getting kinda tired of this whole little dance when he finally find his voice again. “So, you’re telling me that, Belle showed up to _Panic! at the Disco_ because she thought I left the tickets for her?”

“Correct.”

“And Mary Margaret kept thanking me for brightening up the place and bringing new ideas for the kitchen and kept bringing bloody Dave to lunch because-“

“She thought those flowers and notes were for her, correct,” she can’t help it, she snorts and it would’ve turned into full fledged laughter if she didn’t catch the look in his eyes.

Still confused as hell. Lost, for sure. But also, now, finally, again, yearning.

“But they were for me.”

“They were for you.”

And Killian Jones smiles at her for the first time in almost three months. And honestly? It feels like seeing the sun for the first time after a frigid winter.

“Ever heard of leaving a name, Jones?” she tries to glare at his smile but it’s too late now, it has thawed her completely.

“I did. Mine. Thought…” he ducks his head at that, scratches at his neck but doesn’t stop smiling, not really. “Thought I’d be discreet and not write yours in case someone else found it.”

“Well, someone else did.”

“Bloody hell, Emma, why would I send Mary Margaret flowers?”

“I don’t know! Why didn’t you tell her they were for me?”

“I thought you knew! I thought you were just using Belle and Mary Margaret so you wouldn’t have to tell me ‘no’. I… I didn’t want to ask them and make even more of a fool of myself.”

“That worked like a charm.”

“Well, you didn’t look too damn pleased to see me when I finally decided to come and ask you in person now, did you?!”

“Because at that point I thought you wanted to hang out with everyone _but me_!”

“How-“

“No, no,” Emma shakes her head and raises her hands in a sigh of defeat. “Let’s just… I’m sorry. Ok? I’m sorry you thought I was mocking you. And blowing you off. In a really roundabout and quite ridiculous way but… yeah. Sorry.”

She takes a deep breath and looks at him and it’s the amused twitch again and that’s a good sign, right? The little smile is giving her some hope too.

“I’m sorry you thought I didn’t want to spend time with you. I truly did,” he says sincerely but-

“You did?”

“Indeed.”

“No, I mean, you _did._ But now…”

“Now I’m absolutely famished,” he says moving back towards the door and opening it.

And, well, that’s that then. Emma Swan has been thwarted by the universe’s sick sense of humour once again. At least he doesn’t hate her anymore.

“Coming?”

“Huh?”

Her head whips around to see Killian Jones holding the door and his eyebrows doing a whole new thing. It’s tentative and nervous and they won’t stay put but it looks hopeful too and Emma thinks that’s her new favourite.

But when she moves towards him and the familiar suggestive wiggle is back, she has to admit, she doesn’t hate that one all that much either.

“I request at least half an hour to plead my _Pirate Christmas_ case,” he says as they walk into the chilly night air.

“You get me somewhere warm and delicious and we can have a Hawaiian Christmas, for all I care,” she shoots back, moving so that their sides are almost brushing.

For warmth, you know.

“I resent such an easy victory.”

“Easy? You call this easy?”

He lets her have that one with a reluctant chuckle and when a gust of wind finally gives him a semi-plausible excuse to put his arm around her and pull her closer, Emma thinks it’s definitely a victory.

///

2 weeks later

They have a Pirate Christmas. It is brilliant. I-have-never-had-so-much-fun-at-a-work-party-without-imbibing-two-liters-of-wine brilliant. You-look-so-fine-as-a-pirate-Santa-I-might-scar-the-children-before-the-night-is-through brilliant. I-don’t-need-mistletoe-to-kiss-you-by-the-Christmas-pirate-ship brilliant.

///

3 weeks later

Emma Swan gets up at the crack of dawn on a day meant solely for lazing around in your pyjamas to bake pretzels.

And she loves every second of it.

 


	2. Rigged

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 25 Days Christmas Challenge||Day 2: Character A's best friend rigs the Secret Santa, because they know Character A has a crush on Character B.

She’s not doing anything wrong. Nope. Nothing wrong at all. Not. A. Thi-

“Mary Margaret, hey!” Belle jumps as the door opens and her eyes widen with something surprisingly resembling guilt, her cheeks taking on a fresh ruby tint.

But MM shakes off the thought as soon as it comes. Belle is by far the sweetest person at the office and doesn’t have a mean and dishonest bone in her body.

Then she sees the bowl.

“Are those the names for the Secret Santa?”

“Yes, I- I thought I’d take it off your hands this year.”

“Oh, that’s sweet of you. Thanks for getting all the names ready, I can take it from here.”

Mary Margaret reaches for the bowl. Belle promptly gives another little jump, pulling it closer to herself.

“No, no, it’s no trouble at all. I’ll go around once everyone is back from lunch.”

“You really don’t have to _, Belle_ ,” Mary Margaret laughs lightly to cover up the way she unconsciously stressed her name. “I’m used to it, I know how to get even the greenest of Grinches to participate.”

“I know, but I thought I’d save you the trouble of going around all the floors. I have to deliver the mail anyway. I will be sure to threaten any Christmas cynics with holding their mail hostage, if they don’t draw a name.”

Belle laughs and MM would notice how nervous it rings out, if she didn’t rush to join in.

“No, _really_ , Belle, there’s no need. I can take care of it.”

Mary Margaret reaches for the bowl again. It is awkward at best, the way she is holding her hands out, waiting to receive the names. And she would feel terrible, she _does_ feel terrible, watching Belle shuffle her feet and glance in all directions as if waiting for a rescue from somewhere. She would feel terrible but she really, _really_ needs that bowl this year. Mary Margaret is tired of leaving things to chance, tired of stubborn blonde women that don’t believe in the magic of Christmas. Or True Love.

“Belle?” she cringes at her insistent tone and swears to herself that she will make it up to the girl.

But Belle just takes a deep breath, bites hard on her lip and looks up, cheeks now definitely flaming.

“Well, it’s just that… I don’t have much reason to go to the fifth floor usually a-and… I was hoping to get a chance to…” she drops her gaze again and Mary Margaret contemplates just giving up but _it’s been two years_. “Mm, I was hoping to talk to Ruby?”

_Oh._

Mary Margaret stands there with her mouth in a stunned little ‘o’ shape for a solid ten seconds, staring at the woman before her, who was hugging the bowl to her chest as some sort of a shield.

She has to back down, it wouldn’t be right to try to kickstart one love story at the expense of another. Mary Margaret can’t let herself do that to Belle, or Emma for that matter. Plus, she is pretty damn sure Ruby would most certainly kill her, if she knew.

So with a mighty sigh of defeat, she drops her arms and gives Belle a half-sad, half-encouraging smile.

“Of course, Belle, that…” she smiles wider then and reaches over to squeeze the other woman’s arm. “I’m sure she’ll be delighted.”

She gives Belle a conspiratorial wink and leaves the staff room, shoulders a little slummed but conscience clear. The other girl stares after her, face twisted in a combination of embarrassment and guilt.

“Well, at least it wasn’t a complete lie,” she tells herself, voice small but with a note of excitement sneaking in now that her plan was back on track. “You better appreciate this, Jones.”

///

If Mary Margaret didn’t need to play it cool right now, she’d be shoving the paper in her hand in Emma’s face this very second. Telling her all about how things happened the way they were supposed to, all about destiny, and serendipity, and things working out just when you’d given up because you were trying to do good.

She’d say all that and then some but she really needs to play it cool to pull this off so she just smiles down at the little white paper in her hand, bearing the name she’d been trying so hard to steal.

_Killian Jones_

///

“Heeey, Emma!”

Mary Margaret’s megawatt smile receives a twitch of Emma’s lips and a pointedly raised eyebrow.

“What is it, MM? I’m not going out tonight and I’m most definitely not chaperoning you and Nolan.”

The brunette rolls her eyes, giving her best friend an unimpressed look.

“I’ll have you know, David and I prefer to be unsupervised.”

“Ok, ew? Like, that’s the most vague thing you could’ve said and it’s already too much. Just-“

Emma waves her hand in a general ‘go away’ gesture.

“I promise to share no further information about my very non-vague love life, if you do me this tiny little favour,” Mary Margaret smiles innocently, going so far as to bat her eyelashes a bit, but as soon as her friend sighs and looks expectantly at her, she knows she has her and that’s all that matters. “Who did you get for the Secret Santa?”

Emma frowns in confusion.

“Ruby. Why?”

“Perfect!” Mary Margaret beams, reaching out her hand to hand Emma the name of her own giftee.

The other woman looks at her suspiciously and takes the paper with the amount of caution one would expect from someone handling a ticking bomb. Then she looks down at it and it seems the bomb just went off.

“Jones? Seriously?” she gives Mary Margaret a look. “Why would you wanna trade Jones? He’s a piece of cake. Just get him a bottle of rum or a ship in a bottle or something nautical and stupid like that for him to fawn over.”

“Well, I have these spa passes and I was hoping to take my person with me but if you don’t wanna switch-“

Mary Margaret makes to grab back the paper and Emma pulls it out of her reach in almost the same way Belle did the bowl earlier. She has to try really hard to suppress a smug grin.

“Didn’t say that,” says Emma quickly before clearing her throat and fumbling around her desk to find the paper with Ruby’s name on it (after securely pocketing the one with Killian’s).  “Hell knows I have no idea what brands Ruby is into these days and she’d return anything I get her that’s not on her ‘ultimate list’.”

She lets out a victorious ‘aha!’ and hands MM the slightly crumbled piece of paper.

“Pleasure doing business with you, Miss Swan,” Mary Margaret grins happily, snatching it quickly.

She is almost out the door when Emma’s question stops her.

“Oh! Umm, MM, what was the budget again?”

“Under 50.”

Mary Margaret is already thinking about how Belle might be inclined to engage in some Secret Santa blackmarketing as well.

Emma is already thinking how to pass a telescope worth over 2 grand for a less-than-50-dollars present.

///

She lowers her eyes and bites on her lip, and it would look ridiculously seductive and over the top, if she wasn’t so obviously and genuinely flustered, and so damn conscious of her hands. Her hands which were hanging limply by her sides as her gaze followed the fingers teasing the edge of her shirt in a poor attempt at determining what fabric it was made off. Who gave a damn. Hopefully some fabric that fares well after being pulled apart by perfectly-manicured red nails and tossed unceremoniously to the floor. Hell, Belle was willing to sacrifice the stupid shirt in the name of the common good. The common good standing for being ravished by Ruby Lucas, of course.

“This has got to be the most rigged Secret Santa ever,” mutters Emma, trying to go for irritated but it’s really hard to pull off while watching Belle completely lose her shit over Ruby’s blatant flirting and continuous exclamations of appreciation for her present.

A complete luxurious bath set. Salts and candles and all that gazz. It was such a struggle to figure out who she’d be using them with.

The man behind her hums in agreement.

“Perhaps. But a little sleight of hand never did hurt anyone.”

Emma turns around with a snort, lifting her glass to her lips.

“I’m pretty sure that’s not true, Jones.”

“No?” he hums again, fake-innocent and long. “Well, my Secret Santa saw no harm in bending the rules a bit it would seem.”

“Mm, how so?”

Emma averts her eyes a little. For the most part, she is pretty damn sure Killian knows she is his secret Santa. He did look right at her after tearing into his monstrosity of a gift. It was just a bit difficult to tell what else was in his gaze, what with all the joy and excitement. Best money she’s ever spent, if you ask her.

Killian raises an annoyingly knowing eyebrow at that but spares her for the time being, switching to something different. And unexpected.

“Would you like to open your present now?”

“I already did,” Emma furrows her eyebrows in confusion, thinking about the cute travel mug Anna got her.

“I’m afraid not,” Killian shakes his head, looking for all the world as if he was greatly disappointed that she thought the gift-giving portion of the party over. “You haven’t opened mine.”

“You weren’t my Secret Santa,” she points out, unnecessary.

“Wrong again, Swan. I was in fact your intended _Secret Santa.”_

“Nooo. Anna was. She got me a travel mug with little ducklings on it.”

“A decent choice, I admit. Only proves that I picked well,” he replies smugly.

“You picked-“ Emma’s eyes widen a little. “You _traded_ me?!”

She is not offended. Not really. It’s just… well, it’s just that she was damn near giddy when MM gave her his name and he had traded hers. So, yes. Yes, she was offended and she thought she had every right to be.

“I simply didn’t wish to deprive you of an additional gift, Swan,” he says, conciliatorily, having sensed her ire. “Since I’d already procured one myself and all.”

“Oh.”

Some people would probably take a second. To feel bad for presuming their name had been traded because it was unwanted rather than anything else. To feel good for having someone who didn’t need to be reminded to get them something for Christmas.

Emma Swan, however, hasn’t gotten many presents in her life, and she may or may not possess a certain degree of impatience when it comes to gift-opening. So she takes no second.

“Well, what is it?”

Killian doesn’t seem to mind, if his grin is anything to go by. He silently takes her hand and grabs his coat before guiding them outside.

The restaurant’s back garden looks pretty magical even Emma has to admit. Gazebos and twinkling lights and evergreen shrubs with silver bows. The kind of set up Emma would imagine David and Mary Margaret exchanging gifts in. She doesn’t mind stealing some of their brand of over-the-top romance this once. She doesn’t mind the way Killian arranges his coat around her shoulders either. Or the way his chin almost comes to rest on her shoulder as he sneaks his arm around her to put his present in her view.

It’s rectangular and wrapped in the kind of soft and silky wrapping paper she didn’t even know existed. Impeccably white. Silk golden bow and everything. She’d feel guilty about tearing into it like a four-year-old but once again – Emma and patience with unwrapping aren’t exactly a classic combo.

Once the paper falls away, she is left with two separate rectangles. Wrapped individually in simpler golden paper. And she glances back at Killian just so that he can see her eyeroll. But he is still damn close so her nose ends up skirting the line of his jaw and she can feel his quick little intake of chilly air. And now she takes her second.

To feel good about the fact that she can feel Killian’s warmth at her back and his stubble tickling the end of her nose and his hands hovering somewhere in the vicinity of her elbows.

To feel bad about the fact that despite the almost non-existence space between them, the very cold end of her nose is still their only point of contact.

“Swan.”

His voice comes out in a white puff of air and Emma feels her lips switch as she moves her nose slightly from side to side, waiting to see how much it will take for him to snap and finally put his arms around her.

“I can’t believe I have to urge you to open your presents, love. You can barely wait for me to set down the box of baked goods in the morning before you dig into it.”

She huffs in indignation at that, tipping her head up to glare at him before twisting her head around to focus on the treasures in her hands again. She tears into both with the proper (and apparently expected) impatience.

The first one is a book. Correction – it is not just _any_ book. It is freaking _The Princess Bride._ It is the freaking first edition. She almost cries. He takes it from her before she can turn around and she feels him nod behind her so she opens the second one before she says anything.

The second one is a necklace. A circular necklace that reads ‘as you wish’ in gorgeous, looping cursive. She does cry at this one. And she does turn around. And she probably catches him a bit off guard with the way she attacks him with her kiss, if the way he stumbles back is any indication.

But, hey, his arms finally go around her so she congratulates herself on a job well done.

///

They pull apart only for her to open the book and find the inscription on the inside –

[ “Her heart was a secret garden and the walls were very high.”

She said no one could scale them.

“Nonsense. You’re only saying that because no one ever has.”]

\- so she pulls him back in. Into the secret garden.

///

By the time they make it back inside, they are chilled to the bone but wearing the kind of grins that probably make people think they were getting high outside. Or doing something else that Emma definitely wouldn’t have been opposed to, if she didn’t see their breaths mingling in the frigid air every time their chapped lips parted.

By that aforementioned time, more than half of the party-goers have dispersed. Ruby and Belle are surely nowhere to be found, which makes Emma remember something.

“Hey, you know how I said this Secret Santa was all rigged up?”

She turns to Killian after slipping into the coat he was holding for her and he uses the opportunity to wrap her scarf around her as he hums and nods in response. And it is such a sweet and natural and Killian thing to do that she almost completely forgets her train of thought.

“What of it, love?”

Emma shakes her head as if to clear it. They both still need to get home and cabs are all warm and comfortable and thus dangerous territory, if she is not in full control of her faculties.

“Any idea why Belle slapped you upside the head when I opened Anna’s present?”

Killian grins unabashedly, obviously beyond pleased with himself and his ways. Emma can’t say she minds his ways too much either.

“What can I say? She always underestimates me. Doesn’t get that a gentleman likes to take his time and not be rushed about certain things.”

Emma snorts and shakes her head even as she slips her arm in his, holding her presents under the other with some difficulty and admiring the way he handles the freaking telescope. She holds the door open and lets him lead the way back into the December chill and the multitude of lights outside.

“You know she probably had to arm-wrestle those names from MM, you could show some appreciation.”

“Oh, trust me, Swan,” he moves closer, lips just skimming her earlobe. “I intend to show a fair amount of appreciation.”

Who is she to doubt him? Emma thinks as she hails a cab.

“But, first. _My_ Secret Santa seems to think me on the good list this year. Care to help a man install his telescope?”

She turns to him, lips pursed, eyebrow raised, the whole package. She is sure he is messing with her.

But there’s no devious twinkle in his eyes and no teasingly raised eyebrow of his own. Just absolute giddiness and childlike excitement and she suddenly knows exactly what she must look like when she tears wrapping paper apart. Knows why Killian will probably double and triple wrap presents for as long as she has fingers to destroy it with.

He raises his eyebrows expectantly and grins with barely contained glee. And, _yup_ , definitely the best money she’s ever spent.

 _Definitely_ the best Christmas she’s ever had.

Rigged or not.


	3. Confidential

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 25 Days Christmas Romance Challenge||Day 3: Character A works as a Santa's helper. Character B has a small sibling/child.

“Can you not?”

To put it simply, he seems perfect. The face - with the scruff and the lips and the cheekbones and the eyebrows and the twinkle in his eye that flashes when she snaps. The hair – the casual but sexy but effortless but boyish but let-me-run-my-fingers-through-it-and-pull-you-between-my-legs. The neck – exposed despite the carelessly draped scarf. The scarf – the kind of blue that really _really_ brings out his eyes.

To put it simply, he _is_ perfect. And any other day she might let that sway her enough for her tone to be biting but not outright rude. Any other day.

“If you don’t have a child with you, could you, please, get lost and not waste my time in trying to get… my number.”

She has enough sense not to talk about random men _getting into the pants of Santa’s elf_ with possible 5-year-old ears around.

One such owner of 5-year-old ears suddenly pokes his head from behind the man’s legs.

“I am really glad you said “number” there, lass,” he vocalizes her thoughts and dares wink at her rude ass. “Because ‘lo and behold – a child.”

With that his small smirk turns into a full-on shit-eating grin. He bends down and hoists the little boy into his arms, groaning in fake pain and bouncing him around, asking what his parents have been feeding him.

_Note to self #1: he is probably not one half of said parents_

_Note to self #2: You don’t_ care, _Emma_

“You are a child, aren’t you, lad?” he asks in full seriousness.

If she hadn’t fulfilled her bitchy quota with that one already, Emma would’ve rolled her eyes. The boy’s enthusiastic nod almost makes up for the annoying… brother? Uncle? Friend of the family?

_Check note to self #2!_

“And you are in earnest about sitting on Santa’s lap and asking him for an ungodly amount of gifts, correct?”

An even more enthusiastic nod.

“Then I’m sure this charming elf-lady here will be happy to assist.”

He looks at her with a challenge in his eyes and she does roll her eyes this time. As if she’d refuse to take a child to Santa. Plus, it’s kinda her job right now.

“Come on, kid, Santa is impatient to meet you too.”

“He is?”

The little boy almost starts bouncing when Mr Gorgeous But Annoying sets him down and Emma wastes no time in taking his hand and leading him over to sit on Santa’s lap.

However, once the kid seems content and ready to chat Santa’s ear off, Emma has little to do but go back to her spot. Early Thursday afternoon means no queue but she can hardly hang around like a creep, listening in on what the boy wants for Christmas.

“Any chance I can get some of that confidential information?”

His voice is teasing and Emma sighs before turning around. She raises an unimpressed eyebrow.

“My number?”

Has she mentioned how done she is with hanging in the mall in a barely-there bright red elf dress?

The blue eyes fill with amusement and the guy has the gall to laugh. He tries to hold it in but it’s a laugh indeed and Emma narrows her eyes on reflex.

“I meant my nephew’s wishlist,” he says with an easy smile before lowering his voice. “Though you do seem awfully insistent about _not_ giving me your number.”

Emma can feel her cheeks flame up and she channels all her willpower into not tucking her hair behind her ears or fidgeting in any sort of way. Or, you know, digging a hole for herself in the ground.

“Well, it’s been a fun week and a vague disclaimer is nobody’s friend,” she says, refusing to acknowledge her growing pile of blunders.

“ _Buffy_.”

“Excuse me?”

“Oh,” and for the first time he’s the flustered one. “I thought you were quoting- nevermind.”

He laughs again but it’s a nervous thing this time around and accompanied with this cute little shuffle and his hand shooting behind his ear.

Emma would recognize a nerd embarrassed to be caught in their nerdiness anywhere. So she takes mercy on him. It’s probably the season getting to her.

“I was.”

“Ah! Well… um…”

She bites her lip so as not to smile too wide at him trying to get back on track and remember where he left his ‘cool and smooth guy’ face.

“Good taste in TV,” is what he settles for and tries not to cringe.

“Thanks. I-“

Emma honestly doesn’t know what she was about to say but then she sees his nephew jump off Santa’s lap and head towards them and she makes a split second decision.

“I also have a pretty good taste in muffins. There’s a small bakery around the corner. _Granny’s._

She swears his ears literally perk up at that.

_Who’s the elf here again?_

“If you decided to take your nephew for a treat in an hour or so maybe I can slip you that confidential information once my shift is over,” she offers before she can lose her nerve.

His smile might be worth it.

_His smile is definitely worth it._

“Which piece of confidential information are we talking about exactly?” he asks and just like that the smooth guy is back even as he lets out an ‘ompf’ and steadies the mass of 5-year-old that latches onto his leg, babbling about how white Santa’s beard was.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

So what if she flirts back a little bit? When she shows up at Granny’s an hour and 15 minutes later, she leaves only the note with his nephew’s wishlist on his table as she and Henry sit in the booth behind them.

It is only after he turns around to ask for milkshake advice. Henry, mind you, not her. And after he orders one for each of them. And after Henry begs a handful of quarters from her even though she already saw Killian – _yes, apparently even his name is perfect –_ giving a solid handful to Ben. And after the kids put on _All I Want For Christmas_ and _Last Christmas_ and _Shake Up Christmas_ twice in a row. And after he walks her and Henry to her bug with his nephew slung over one shoulder, more asleep than not.

It’s only after all that she gives him the other note with her phone number.


	4. Swans, Toy Trains and Other Treasures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 25 Days Christmas Romance Challenge|| Day 4: Character A is desperate to find a particular item (book/toy/etc.) as a present for someone, but it's been sold out everywhere. Character B helps.
> 
> A prequel of sorts to [Tea, Vaccines and Other Necessities](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8748997). :)

“Bloody America!”

Emma groans. Perhaps a bit too loudly, considering the look David throws her way.

She doesn’t care. Emma has been listening to Killian Jones moan and groan and mutter under his breath about “Bloody America” and “centre of commercialism, _HA_ ” and “disorganized Yanks” for the last week.

Disorganized? Really, Jones? Really? He’s one to talk.

She is at the end of her tether and yet… If she asks, she shows interest and showing even the barest interest in Killian Jones is what Emma Swan has been solely focused on avoiding since he joined the Creative Department 8 months ago.

But, if those 8 months have taught her anything, it is that she cannot watch Killian Jones struggle. It gnaws at her, bothers her in ways few things do, does something irritating as all hell to her heart strings and generally doesn’t leave her be until he is back to his naturally lost (not ‘impending doom’ lost) state.

And he sure is good at struggling.

In less than a month Emma was convinced that Jones was a brilliant designer, a royal pain in the ass and the kind of friend that can save your life.

But in less than a week she was convinced that Jones was the most disorganized person she had ever come across and the creature with worst self-preservation skills on the planet.

No, seriously, it was like observing a whole new kind of species. There are only so many times you can watch someone almost staple their hand by accident. How he still has both of those is a mystery to her.

So, knowing her wrist (that particular spot that seems to be a ‘Killian Jones is in trouble button') was going itch all day and probably well into the night _again_ , if she didn’t try to help him, Emma decides to just bite the bullet. Nonchalantly, of course.

“What has the country that took you in and gave you a job done wrong this time, Jones?”

“I’ll have you know, lass, I can go back and get the same job on the other side of the planet.”

Which will probably make her life a lot easier and calmer and quieter and, generally, will suck. But Emma chooses to banter instead of dwell on that thought.

“And yet here you are. So what have we “Yanks” done to offend your Irish sensibilities again?”

“For a country that prides itself on having completely dehumanized and commercialized the Christmas holiday, you sure do make it difficult for a man to do a spot of Christmas shopping,” he sighs, and after a few more angry hits at his keyboard, pushes his chair away from his desk and leans his head back with a groan of defeat.

Emma doesn’t stare at the muscles in his neck and the veins and the Adam apple and all that. Jones is a big fan of the whole God-why-me, eyes-to-the-ceiling, hands-behind-your-head pose. She knows better than to look.

“First of all, we don’t exactly _pride_ ourselves on it,” begins Emma with a little frown.  “It just… happened.”

He snorts in amusement and she still manages not to look.

“Second, what the hell are you looking for?”

“A toy train, Miss Swan. A mere classical, well-functioning, realistic-looking toy train.”

She can’t help it. She looks. And, yeah, he makes as sinful a picture as she imagined he would. As unaware of it as possible as well. For someone who has no problem flaunting his sexuality around, the man sure is clueless about some of the things he does that force Emma to take a few extra seconds to swallow.

“Why are you looking for a toy train?”

“Well,” he has the decency to whirl his chair so he can incline his head to the side and look at her without actually having to regain use of his neck muscles just yet. “My brother and his wife are so kind as to drag themselves all the way across the ocean to spend the holidays with me. The least I can do is buy them and my nephew decent gifts now, isn’t it?”

There are some strange things about Killian Jones that make Emma Swan scrunch up her nose in confusion. Like how he puts almost as much milk in his tea as he does water and won’t drink any at all, if someone (read: Emma) doesn’t replace the carton in the office kitchen every week. And how he can go without water for 8 hours straight, if someone (read: Emma) doesn’t throw a water bottle at his head. And how he’d create the most perfect sketches and then completely forget to send them to Regina unless someone (read: you know it, _Emma_ ) exclaims (loudly and repeatedly) how they had only an hour to go before they were done for the day, only half an hour now, better start tidying up, twenty minutes and _boy, she hopes she sent in all her projects!_

And then there are other things. Like how he urges her to play her music even though she’s forgotten her headphones because _surely no one would mind being treated to her excellent taste in punk rock bands._ And how he brings donuts for the whole damn office and comes to her first so she can snag one of the two bear claws for herself... Fine, sometimes she takes both, sue her.

And then there are the _other things._ Like how whenever he talks about his brother and his family, Emma doesn’t get the annoying, jealous little itch she gets whenever other people talk about relatives and homes and things she knows little about and can relate to even less.

But, you know, Emma is pretty good at keeping _all_ of those things to herself.

“Are you being a lazy ass and trying to find one online?” she asks instead of picturing him playing with toy trains and a little boy with eyes as blue as his.

Killian finally straightens. If just to glare at her.

“It’s called availing myself of the modern comforts that are supposed to compensate us for the pollution of our planet, Swan.”

Emma is half-convinced he said that simply to see how far she can roll her eyes.

“Sure, Mr ‘I can’t work with Excel, Swan! Rescue me from these task sheets! I’m a creative soul, Swan! This is killing everything pure inside me, Swan!’”

He looks at her long and hard and then sighs in something reminiscent of resignation.

“At least you didn’t do the accent.”

“You just gotta go out there and do the leg work, like any other tortured soul caught in the pre-holidays madness,” she says with a shrug before turning back to her computer.

“Must I?”

Emma doesn’t look at the pout and the lashes and the baby blues. She knows better. But she hears it all in his tortured sigh just the same.

///

It is 5pm on a Sunday when she receives his text.

_You sent me into the lion’s den, Swan!!_

She is confused for a few seconds before she gets the second one.

_And for nought!_

Attached is a selfie of one Killian Jones with a perfectly satisfactory toy train in the background, which has apparently failed to meet his standards, if his face is anything to go by.

She doesn’t reply. But 20 minutes later she opens her laptop and starts a toy train research that takes her well into dinner.

///

Step 1 is putting him on the mailing list for the online shop in which (at 11pm, God help her) Emma finally found a train set so intricate and decadent even Killian Jones will have to be impressed.

She has little hope of that being enough. Jones hardly checks his mail, let alone clean out his Spam and Junk folders or open adverts.

Step 2 are an extraordinary amount of pointed hints to maybe look online again, to maybe try a few stores known for their handmade toys, to maybe this or maybe that.

She should’ve known better. Killian continues to be foiled by technology at every turn.

Step 3 is literally leaving a post-it with the shops name on his desk.

That desk is a whole other disaster and her post-it doesn’t even have the chance to get the trademark Killian Jones teacup ring on it before it is lost under an avalanche of sketches, notebooks and other equally doomed post-its.

Emma is well-aware that the logical next step is to just _tell_ him where he can find the perfect stupid train, say she stumbled upon it by accident and be done with it.

Emma, for all her virtues (not that many of them, if you ask her), is a woman of little to no logic when it comes to Killian Jones.

///

The 22nd is their last day at work before the holidays and Killian looks dejected at best when David asks how his shopping went. He shrugs, mutters something about board games being all the rage this season and looks up to give her a smile and a ‘Happy Holidays, Swan’ before he walks out.”

Her desk, unlike other people’s, is ordered at best and downright Spartan, if you ask Killian. Which makes it all too easy for her to spot the little white box with a red ribbon and the freaking _post-it._

_‘Hopefully some of my shopping endeavors were successful’_

It’s a simply beautiful glass swan with a golden beak and it makes her feel just a little bit better about her stalking ways.

///

“Yes?” Killian growls impatiently as he wrenches his door open and tries not to glower at the clearly lost delivery man in front of him.

He has 3 hours before he has to pick his brother from the airport and his apartment… is not exactly guests-ready.

 “A delivery from ‘The Enchanted Forest of Toys’.”

“I’m sorry, I believe you have the wrong address, mate,” he answers with a frown, while mentally putting more and more objects on his grocery list.

“Killian Jones.”

“Yes.”

“Then this is for you, sir.”

The guy reaches over to drag a huge brown package from where it was obviously leaning against the wall.

“I did not order this,” Killian reaches to help despite his confusion.

“Well, maybe your Secret Santa did,” the guy mutters without too much cheer but not unkindly so Killian tries to suppress his eyeroll. “It’s paid for and you just have to sign here.”

Brow furrowed in bewilderment, Killian signs the slip of paper and watches the guy run down the stairs before he shakes his head and closes the door. He rips into the paper with only a few seconds of hesitation.

“Bloody Hell!”

Killian Jones is not a non-believer. Christmas miracles are a real thing as far as he is concerned. And he is pretty sure his has green eyes and a penchant for leather.

And will deny it into next Christmas.


	5. The Killian Jones List

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 25 Days Christmas Romance Challenge|| Day 5: Character A and Character B are co-workers, but they barely know each other. But they both have to work through the holidays.

6 days until Christmas

Now, something important to know – Emma Swan is no Grinch. No, she has not been listening to Christmas playlists on Spotify for the last three weeks. And, no, she does not own a single Christmas sweater. And, aside from the fact that the broccoli in her fridge has probably been there long enough to grow into a tree by now, she has not put up any decorations in her apartment.

And, yes, she absolutely refuses to switch her trusty hot chocolate with cinnamon for any kind of ‘tis the season monstrosity.

But, be that as it may, she is no Grinch. She doesn’t scowl at people with Santa hats in the street and she hasn’t torn down the decorations that have exploded all over her apartment building, and she doesn’t even groan when _All I Want For Christmas_  starts playing for the 37th freaking time that day while she’s waiting for her bear claw.

She doesn’t hate Christmas. She simply doesn’t _get_ Christmas. It was always this shiny (too shiny), cheery (too cheery), candy cane-red and, frankly, kinda fake secret that everyone else seemed to have been let in on except for her. And she wanted to be in on it. Oh, how she wanted that.

For the first six years of her life, Christmas was right up there with a mom and a dad and a bed that no one else had ever slept in and clothes that actually fit and breakfast every morning without fail. Right up there on her list of things she’d give anything to have. But after six years of failed wishing on stars and snowflakes and basically anything that looked down at her from the sky, she started to accept that Christmas was at best a day when someone decided to give her a doll and a pair of socks to make themselves feel merry and good rather than her.

After twenty six years of life on earth, almost twenty of which spent with the full knowledge that stars were a lot of things but concerned with your stupid wishes was definitely not one of them, she is more or less resigned to the fact that Christmas would come every year and she would feel like a stranger who ended up at someone’s party by mistake and doesn’t have a clue what to do with themselves.

So when everyone starts asking for days off and arguing schedules and freaking out about unexpected visits from great aunts and uncles, she simply stays behind her desk, knowing that she’ll be stuck working the week before and after Christmas and being perfectly okay with it.

The one thing she allowed herself to silently wish for every year was a tolerable second martyr who she’ll have to share the office with.

So when the elevator pings on the Monday before Christmas and Killian Jones comes out, she cringes.

And she feels bad about it almost immediately because here is what she knows about Killian Jones:

\- Irish  
\- new to New York City  
\- one of the better designers they have  
\- 28 years old  
\- wears almost exclusively black and blue  
\- the above excludes the period called December  
\- has a greater assortment of ugly Christmas sweater than Emma has of… anything  
\- killer ass  
\- has a pretty good voice  
\- sadly uses said voice to sing Christmas carols  
\- drums his fingers over the elevator buttons while he rides it  
\- always takes the triple coconut donut, if there is one  
\- killer smile  
\- takes to humming, if he is prevented from straight out singing by a cold  
\- said cold takes none of his pleasure from the ‘wonderful weather outside’  
\- calls slush and three snowflakes every 15 minutes ‘wonderful weather outside’  
\- seems to be ridiculously multi-talented  
\- killer eyes as well  
\- decorated the whole office almost single-handedly  
\- the above is true because he was almost done by the time Belle joined in  
\- also because he happens to have one hand  
\- can juggle with said one hand better than Emma can with two  
\- now seemingly great friends with Belle  
\- the above is something Emma has yet to accomplish with anyone after 4 years of working here  
\- pretty much killer everything  
\- calls her ‘Swan’ 95% of the time  
\- despite the above she can’t remember the time she told him her full name  
  
Overall, Emma finds out that she knows more about Killian Jones than she thought and, admittedly, most of it is not of the negative variety. And, _yet._ She does not want to spend the week before Christmas with the human equivalent of the holiday spirit. Also, she is at a complete loss why Killian Jones of all people is at the office around the holidays.

Which, being known for her grace and tact, is what she opens with when she sees him that morning.

“What the hell are _you_ doing here?”

He is in the process of taking off his headphones and if she’d said that just a few seconds earlier… but, no, good timing is not a talent Emma Swan is blessed with. Feeling mortification with every molecule of her being certainly is though and she is exhibiting that talent right now as she watches Killian draw back and frown and generally look like she just stomped a snowman to the ground in front of him.

“Well, good morning to you too, Swan,” he says with an eyeroll.

But she can still see the crumbs of his frown on his lips and gee, self-hatred came early this holiday season.

“Sorry,” she mumbles inadequately. “Just didn’t expect you to be one of the Christmas martyrs.”

“The what now?”

“Oh, um, it’s what we call the people who have to work over the holidays,” she explains with a shrug.

“Catchy,” he says as he takes off his coat and-

Good Lord, that’s a new one. A hideous shade of green that somehow manages to look a tad unbecoming even on him. Though that might be the Rudolph on it. Or the big red nose protruding from the middle.

He starts taking out his laptop but then looks at her, something a lot like apprehension on his face.

“Should I take your greeting as an indication that you’d mind me sticking around on this floor?” he asks, hand reaching to rub at his neck a bit nervously. “It’s just that the kitchen is here and the lower floor is absolutely dead and-“

“It’s fine,” she says, surprising herself.

It’s not that she would’ve said ‘no’ but she is mildly shocked by how genuine her ‘yes’ is.

It is, however, rewarded with a ‘Santa brought me _exactly_ what I wished for this year’ kind of smile from Killian, so Emma decides she feels pretty good about it.

///

5 days till Christmas

She is beginning to rethink her decision to let Jones and his hot ass and merry ways stay on her floor. And what is worse is that she can’t even put the blame on him.

When the first notes of _Baby, It’s Cold Outside_ flow out of his speakers, her glare is simply an automatic response. And him putting on his headphones after merely an eyeroll and a muttered ‘Scrooge’ is pretty decent as far as responses go.

(add to the Killian Jones list: prefers the big bulgy headphones and has a freaking skull and bones sticker on the left one)

For, the record she is not a Scrooge either but whatever.

But she can still hear the damn humming and see his head bobbing in her periphery.

Then there are the candy canes. She is surprised the man still has more than a handful of teeth in his illogically good-looking mouth. Also, Emma is not superficial and she can keep her mind out of the gutter when she needs to, and it’s not like Killian is going after the GQ cover, what with the woolen sweater with snowflakes all over it, but him sucking on a freaking sugary treat for almost 8 hours straight is a bit much, even for her.

And then there’s Tuesday morning and him bringing her a drink. Which – really sweet and everything. Like, _really_ sweet. Emma can count the times someone has bought her a drink outside of a bar on one hand. Extra sweet because he had to go to the trouble of getting a cup holder so he could carry both their drinks to the office.

(add to the Killian Jones list: doesn’t need a free hand to open a door but needs one to offer her a drink because apparently the later needs to be accompanied by neck-rubbing and ear-scratching)

But, of course, he got her one of those over-the-top Christmas-y hot chocolates. And, of course, it’s _good_ and she already knows she’ll be the one to get them the same damn thing tomorrow and… Emma sighs and decides that she’d just have to be an adult about it and draw the line at hot drinks with little men sticking out of them.

It’s not like he could ever get her to listen to a Christmas playlist.

///

4 days till Christmas

So Emma got the stupid Christmas-y drinks. Doesn’t mean she fails to glare him into putting his headphones on. It’s just that peace never lasts when Killian Jones is around, it seems.

He goes to open the window and apparently miracles are being performed across the street.

(add to the Killian Jones list: too hot 24/7 and no, not like _that_ )

For the record, that doesn’t stop him from wearing the stupid sweaters. Today’s choice is a fairly decent shade of blue. But it has a literal, honest-to-God bell on it.

(add to the Killian Jones list: can’t sit still for more than 20 minutes)

For the record, that, in combination with his little bell, is turning the scenario of Emma making the news with a murder a few days before Christmas more and more likely.

“Swan, would you come and look already?”

She’d really rather not but that means he’ll stay by the very open window, letting in the very cold air and rocking on his heels and jingling his _very_ loud bell.

“What is it, Jones? Are they opening a candy cane factory across the street to supply their most loyal customer?”

“It is simply not becoming to eat candy canes at any other time of the year. I have to make use of the time I’m given,” he says with a straight face and a tone that suggests she is supposed to take him seriously. “Now, come here and _look._ ”

He reaches over when she is close enough and grabs her wrist to tug her the rest of the way to the window.

And, well, Emma generally likes to avoid clichés at all costs and she won’t be caught dead saying she felt ‘a jolt of electricity’ from his touch of anything ridiculous like that but… she sure felt _something_. Enough to make her glance up at Killian for some sort of reaction.

Only to find him looking about 10 years younger and leaning so far out of the window, she doesn’t even think twice about grabbing his shoulder to tug him back inside.

“Jones! What the hell?!”

“He is selling Christmas trees, Swan!” he finally turns his attention back to her, eyes alight with excitement and what looks dangerously like anticipation.

“So?” she shoots back, non-pulsed.

“Actual Christmas trees. Alive and all!”

He drops her hand to point out as if she can’t see the guy across the street surrounded by a mini-forest.

“Hate to break it to you, kid, but they’re not alive. Happy tree-murder day. We think it fits in nicely after turkey-murder day.”

“First,” he actually lifts a finger to count as he fixes her with a pseudo-stern look. “I’m pretty sure I’m older than you, lass. Second, don’t compare Christmas to your ‘we needed an excuse to stuff our faces again’ holiday. Third, they’re _not_ dead. Look, they’re in pots!”

Emma turns around to glower at the guy that’s overstimulating Killian’s already too easily excitable self and finds out that he is indeed right.

(add to the Killian Jones list: too fucking easily excitable)

They are freaking potted Christmas trees.

Her head snaps back towards him to see him grinning like… well, a kid on Christmas. They speak – no, they _shout_ at the same time.

“Killian, NO!”

“We need one!”

“Ugh,” Emma faceplams with little to no shame.

If there was ever a time in her life when she had the right to a proper, solid facepalm, this is that moment.

“Absolutely not. Why would we get a real ass Christmas tree? It will get needles everywhere!”

“No, it won’t because it’s alive and won’t be dying and crying needles.”

“We already have like five fake ones thanks to you and Belle.”

“Precisely. _Fake_ ones. Pitiful substitutes for the real thing.”

“We have nowhere to put it.”

“There’s no one here! We could literally put it on top of Regina’s desk, if we wanted to.”

“It won’t fit in the elevator.”

“I’ll get one of the smaller ones. Don’t think I can carry one of the bigger ones in one hand anyway.”

“I’ll help!”

Killian’s eyebrows jump so high up it would be funny, if it wasn’t completely understandable. She sure switched gears fast there. But… well, she doesn’t like the thought of him settling for a small tree just because he thinks he can’t ask her to help him carry a big one.

To his credit, Killian doesn’t rub her change of heart in her face.

“Perhaps a medium one is our best bet anyway,” he says with some finality and manages to look awfully patient while waiting for her to make up her mind.

Except that he is rocking on his heels again and his bell is doing a little jig.

“Ugh, _fine_!”

 _He_ does a little jig of his own at that and Emma just knows. This man is gonna be her downfall.

(add to the Killian Jones list: the kind of person to pick the most pathetic-looking tree and then spend two hours and forty-five minutes straightening its branches and picking out _just the right_ ornaments that won’t make it stoop too much)

///

3 days till Christmas

On Thursday she brings in a box of donuts. Lots of bear claws. Lots of triple coconut. Nothing festive about it. Emma can do nice but non-festive just fine. Of course, Killian has to one up her. Unknowingly but still. And who on earth still makes gingerbread houses?

So Emma brushes off any and all attempts of his to ‘bring out her inner architect’.

“Architect? Of what?! Hensel and Gretel’s house?”

“Technically, Swan, it was the witch’s house.”

“Okay, Hans Christian Andersen.”

“Wilhelm Grimm.”

“Seriously?” she looks him up and down. “Where did you come from? Narnia?”

“Neverland,” he shoots back with a wink and bites into a donut.

It would be all cheeky and cool but-

(add to the Killian Jones list: coconut flakes get caught in his mustache when he eats triple coconut donuts)

“Ah, a Peter Pan,” Emma nods, narrowing her eyes.

She can see it. Kinda. Though he is less mischievously childish and more just delightfully childlike.

“More of a Captain Hook, I’d say.”

He makes a circular motion with his left arm. It is, much like the rest of him, covered in a rather tasteful white cardigan with the occasional stylized pine tree on it. But still, a cardigan? The things Emma Swan would do to see that man naked… well, the number has been rising alarmingly fast in the last few days.

 He manages to last until after lunch.

“Alright, Swan. I do not care about your mutinous ways, I am building myself a gingerbread house,” he straightens and nods as if he has just declare that he is going to build the greatest structure NYC has ever seen. “And if you’re not gonna use your parts, I might even have material for a little guest house.”

She gasps in indignation on principle.

(add to the Killian Jones list: swears a lot while building a gingerbread house)

(add to the Killian Jones list: swearing vocabulary as impressive as his overall vocabulary)

She holds off for almost an hour before she caves and sneaks over to the office kitchen. It looks like gingerbread city was hit by ginger Godzilla.

“Fuck me!”

“Quite forward of you, wouldn’t you say, Swan? Also quite mean to make such an offer when a man has his only hand full.”

She doesn’t even waste any time blushing over that whole exchange, just heads inside and comes to the table to inspect his house. Greatest structure in NYC wasn’t that far off after all.

“How on earth did you make this one-handed?” she asks before she has time to consider such things as etiquette and _bloody tact._

Fortunately, Killian either doesn’t care about her bluntness or is too happy with his handiwork to care about much else.

“Lots and lots of practice and patience, Swan,” he says with a wink, bending down to stick a red M&M to the roof.

“Oh, is that what that hour of verbal abuse was? Patience?” she smirks at the chuckle and ear-scratch combo that earns her.

“Allow me to amend that,” he murmurs and Emma starts, finding him much closer now than he was seconds ago, much less nervous too.

He is arranging the parts for another house in front of her, his arm brushing hers every time he places an item on the table, his hip occasionally checking hers.

“Practice, patience and passion. Surely you know nothing worthy can be created without a sound dose of passion, Swan.”

He stops right next to her, inspects the ginger construction site and then looks at her. And it is only when he does that she realizes how long she has been staring. How she is still staring. How his eyes are the kind of blue that no ugly sweater can overshadow and his lips are permanently redder than normal and slightly swollen from the candy canes, and there are a few bits of gingerbread in his hair that he probably got their himself, and overall, he might be the single most delicious thing she has ever seen. And she just can’t stop staring.

“Care to give it a try?”

Emma swallows heavily and tries to unearth her voice from somewhere deep inside where she should probably hurl the things Killian Jones is currently making her feel.

“I’ve never made one before,” she admits quietly.

He either isn’t surprised or at least he doesn’t show it.

“All the more reason to give it a go,” he says with that smile that Emma is finding out she can’t say ‘no’ to. “You never forget your first.”

So Emma Swan makes a gingerbread house. And the decorations lack any colour coordination and it’s slightly shaky and at least one fourth of it is under her nails and stuck to her hair but honestly? It’s the most fun she can remember having in this office. Hell, some of the most fun she can remember having in New York.

And they don’t listen to Christmas carols. Not really. Killian’s humming and occasional bursting into song –

(add to the Killian Jones list: has an alarming number of similarities with Disney characters)

\- doesn’t really count. So Emma hasn’t crossed _the line._ It’s fine.

///

2 days till Christmas

On Friday Emma wakes up resolute not to engage in a single Christmas-shaped activity. Then she looks outside.

She makes her way to the office through the Winter Wonderland that New York has turned into overnight, weaving between the only two types of citizens that can be seen on the streets - snow-enthusiasts and grumpy people.

Emma arrives with flushed cheeks, frozen nose and snow-covered hair and a tiny little part of her regrets the fact that Killian is nowhere to be found ‘cause… well, she looks quite cute, if she says so herself.

She has barely managed to thaw herself somewhat when out of nowhere - inside the freaking building - a snowball hits her in the shoulder. Emma whirls around to see a red-nosed Killian Jones standing in the doorway, panting from having run up the stairs before his weapon could turn to water in his hand and grinning from ear to ear. She glares, or tries to at least, but if she thought he was excited about that stupid tree in the corner, it's nothing compared to the glee shining in his eyes right now. In lieu of any explanation he raises an eyebrow at her, the challenge written clearly all over his face. And Emma means to scoff, she really does, but it's kinda hard to scoff at someone while chasing them down the stairs.

They end up in the nearest park which is a pretty sorry excuse for a park and overcrowded with children and teenagers, engaged in the battle of their lives it seems. Emma thinks they (read: Killian) manage to fit right in. What with his carefree laughter and his flashing eyes and his uncontrollable smile.

(add to the Killian Jones list: killer aim)

Gingerbread houses have taught her better than to think he will be at a disadvantage in a snow fight just because she has an extra hand. But Emma is also much better in the wild of a NYC park than she is in any kitchen and manages to land quite a few devastating hits. Mostly ones that fill the warm space between his scarf and the back of his neck with half-packed snowballs and ones that manage to sweep him off his feet and give her the perfect chance to feed him some of the snow he seems to delight in. They keep it up for a good hour and half of it is spent rolling around in the snow and just throwing unpacked fistfuls of it in each other’s face.

Later, when they are hanging gloves and scarves and coats and a sweater with the appropriate snowman on it, all around the office, she thinks about landing on top of him in a hardly graceful heap and the way his dark hair stood out against the whiteness and the way his eyes laughed at her along with every other part of him. But right then and there, amid the snowflakes she didn’t feel any of the tension creeping on her now. She just felt free. Happy.

(add to the Killian Jones list: worrisomely good at making her happy)

They are all dried up and bundled up again by 5pm and she’s unexplainably reluctant to leave.

“You should come over tomorrow, Swan.”

Emma’s head shoots up from where she was slowly (ridiculously slowly) putting her things away.

“Huh?”

Killian gives her a smile. Different from the joyful one she’s been looking at all day. Softer, more hesitant, maybe slightly anxious, definitely slightly sleepy.

(add to the Killian Jones list: easily exhausted by snowflights)

“If you don’t have anything else planned. You should come over. You still haven’t given one of my Christmas playlists a chance.”

“Oh,” she stuffs the agreement that almost slips from her mouth back inside. “I don’t wanna intrude on your celebration.”

“Well, I believe my wildly exciting celebration for one can definitely stand one more,” he replies smoothly, smile not exactly sad but more subdued now.

Emma’s eyebrows shoot up and she would eye him with a healthy doze of suspicion, if she couldn’t hear the sincerity in his voice. So she decides it’s only fair that she be honest as well.

“I think I’d like that. But no Christmas playlists.”

///

1 day till Christmas

Contrary to her own expectations, Emma doesn’t second guess her decision to go to Killian’s even once.

She sleeps in, does a light workout, takes a shower, has a Poptart, runs around the neighbourhood until she finds an open store, buys a bottle of wine, receives a text from Killian with his address, goes home, watches a couple of F.R.I.E.N.D.S episodes while curling her hair, choose a red woolen dress that falls just below the knee, wraps herself in her thickest coat and scarf and heads out with the full knowledge that she’ll probably spent Christmas Eve at Killian Jones’ apartment.

(add to the Killian Jones list: good taste in furniture)

(add to the Killian Jones list: the above is sadly marred by his excessive but predictable love for Christmas decorations)

“Wow!” Emma’s eyes go a little wide when she sees the tree in his living room – a forestry work of art, if she’s ever seen one.

“Ah, yes,” he chuckles and reaches for that spot behind his ear. “I might have gone a bit overboard.”

Emma snorts in agreement and takes her time exploring his place while he opens the wine and brings out about half a dozen different kinds of Christmas cookies.

An hour later finds her in a fierce battle against his firm belief that _Love Actually_ must be watched on Christmas Eve. Followed by _It’s A Wonderful Life_ , of course.

“How did you get like this?” she says with a shake of her head as he goes about turning on his projector.

“’This’ being?”

Killian turns around and looks up at her from his place on the floor, kneeling by the coffee table littered with holiday confections.

“This!” she waves at said table and subsequently at his entire apartment. “I mean…”

Emma swallows and debates the merits of going down that road so early into the night. But Killian is now leaning on the coach, chin resting on his folded arms and hiding the bright red sweater with mistletoe leaves and a sprawling ‘Happy Christmas!’ on it, and his eyes are every shade of patient and the shape of his mouth is every form of sweet and she just goes for it.

“I never really had anyone to celebrate with,” she gets out fast. “So I guess I never got into this whole… the whole madness, tis the season and all that. So I thought you were so into it because…”

“I had a house full of kids?” Killian raises a teasing eyebrow but drops it quickly, smile kind and only the slightest bit melancholy. “Aye. If you insist on knowing, I had my own Grinch spell for a couple of years.”

“I’m no-“

“Surely not, love,” he says and this time the teasing glint remains there for a few seconds longer.

Until she rolls her eyes and shakes her head at him.

“But…” he looks down and picks at some invisible tread on his left sleeve. “I only remember celebrating Christmas with my brother. I don’t… I don’t know, if we ever did when my mum was still around. I sure don’t recall.”

He furrows his brows, as if checking within his memory to be sure that he is telling her the truth and Emma shuffles on the couch until her knee is brushing his elbow.

“Certainly never celebrated with my father before he… No, certainly not.”

He shakes his head and it’s the darkest she has seen Killian Jones’ eyes look. But then he glances up at her and answers her frown with a tiny smile, the kind that lets you off the hook effortlessly when you are feeling your most inadequate.

“Anyway. The times I do remember though. With my brother. It was magic. Liam loved Christmas more than anything else, I think. Except yours truly,” he grins ruefully, a potent combination of sadness and love. “So once he was gone… For awhile there I felt so angry that this holiday continued to exist. When he couldn’t be here to enjoy it.”

He looks over her shoulder and she can almost picture him frowning at some past him, lecturing him on the merits of real trees and gingerbread decorations.

 “And then?” she asks, voice soft and knee nudging his elbow.

Her smile is knowing and she realizes that her Killian Jones list is quickly becoming the longest list she has ever had.

“And then I realized shunning the things he loved was more disrespectful to his memory than enjoying them ever could be,” he says, voice strong and sure in his philosophy. “Enjoying them was the point. The way to honour him.”

It’s then and there that she realizes…

(add to the Killian Jones list: probably the most wonderful person Emma Swan has ever known)

“Put on the Christmas playlist,” is what she says.

The smile he gives her is all of the ones she’s been collecting all week rolled into one brilliant, beautiful, breath-taking thing.

They dance to _Driving Home for Christmas_. He teaches her how to light his small fireplace to _It’s Beginning To Look A Lot Like Christmas._ She expresses her outrage at the lack of an armchair by said fireplace and goes around collecting every pillow he owns to put in front of it to _Baby It’s Cold Outside._ They start playing air guitar and spill a glass of wine to _Jingle Bell Rock._ She points out his non-observance of the mistletoe tradition and he points to his sweater at the end of _All I Want For Christmas._ She kisses him to _Shake Up Christmas._

///

0 days till Christmas

Emma blinks her eyes open to see the credits of _It’s a Wonderful Life_ rolling on the wall before her. She pops her neck and looks down to find her hand in Killian’s hair and his head in her lap, his right hand wrapped around her knee and left forearm tucked under her legs. She bites her lip and tries to stretch her leg far enough to push the power button on his projector without jostling him.

She succeeds and then defeats the purpose of the whole exercise by bending down and kissing his brow. He wakes up to her nose nuzzling his cheek but the sound he makes tells her he probably doesn’t mind.

“Merry Christmas, I think,” she says, glancing at the thick darkness outside.

“Happy Christmas, Swan.”

“I have no idea what people usually do on Christmas,” she admits with a sheepish smile and slides lower so she can hide her face in his shoulder.

“I’ll walk you through it.”

///

1 year later, 24 days till Christmas

She is the first one to put on a Christmas playlist in their apartment.


	6. Is It Serendipity (or am I just a bad penny?)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 25 Days Christmas Romance Challenge||Day 6: Character A and Character B meet in the ER on Christmas Eve

The first time he meets her she is sharp and jaded and irritable, and that’s coming from the guy in the ER on Christmas Eve with a bone protruding from his leg. She has no bedside manner to speak of and barely raises her eyebrows when he tries to flirt his way into seeing what her smile looks like but her jade eyes are so _full_ and he feels like there are more stories inside her than in the city’s public library.

The second time he is there to have his cast removed and sees her hurrying through the waiting room. He tries to straighten up from his slouching position on the less than comfortable plastic chair and thinks she catches sight of him and slows her step for a millisecond but then he always did have an overactive imagination.

The third time hardly counts because neither realizes the almost-encounter. He storms out of the coffee shop that’s in no way in his neighbourhood, in a rush to get to work and armed only with the vague instructions of his one night stand. She trudges into the coffee shop that’s only two blocks from her apartment, barely keeping her eyes open and feeling the pressure and invisible filth of a 27-hour shift.

The fourth time they see each other is at a Robbie Williams concert. If you count her crashing into him and spilling some beer all over his left sleeve and muttering an apology as she surges on, as ‘seeing each other’. He tries to stop her, to talk to her, to jog her memory, to… something. But she either doesn’t hear his shout of “Hey, Doc!” or decides he might be a stalker of sorts, or just generally doesn’t give a fuck, and he is way too aware of the possibility of her turning around and him ending with another broken bone, if he tries to grab her arm or something so he lets her and the flash of her green eyes disappear in the crowd.

The fifth time it’s just him seeing her. On TV, after a massive fire, as she snaps at a journalist that she has better things to do than stand around and _talk_ about the people she is meant to be helping. Her ponytail is a study in disaster and there’s something that looks a lot like blood at the end of her sleeve and her face is set in a scowl but her eyes still give him a glimpse into endless fields of beauty.

The sixth time, ironically enough, he is there because of a burn on his hand but she looks like the burnt out one. She is clearly exhausted, the kind of exhausted where it seems like she’s having trouble carrying her very bones around, the kind that dims the hard sparkle in her eyes. So he stays quiet and only gives her a smile of thanks when she is done wrapping his hand and she doesn’t smile back but her nod looks something like grateful.

The seventh time it’s Christmas Eve again and his nephew is running a fever that has both Killian and Liam in near panic-mode and leaves Elsa to be the cool voice of reason, which she is admittedly pretty good at. Killian always did say she was too good for his grumpy old brother (and secretly thought that she might be the only one good enough). He is so worried he honestly doesn’t spare a thought to the ER doctor whose eyes he remembers on occasion, when a pretty blonde with the wrong shade of green in her gaze crosses his path. But she is the one on shift once again and seems to soften her impossibly jarred edges around the kid that has his brother’s winning eyes (but not enough for him to finally see what her damn smile looks like). She is almost nice to Elsa and civil with Liam but he still ends up on the wrong side of her glare when she gives the boy a lollipop ( _for later_ ) and he starts humming Robbie William’s _Candy_.

The eighth time he knows his wrist is barely sprained and he is in no need of ER services but he can’t forget the way Liam looked between him and _Doctor Swan_ (he made sure to get her name that time, answered her eyeroll with a straight face and an ‘ _you might be impersonating a physician for all I know, lass’_ ), the way he raised an eyebrow and asked the blonde if his _little brother_ landed himself in the ER often. He can’t forget the way she shrugged and muttered a ‘ _not as often as he seems likely to’_. He can’t forget her damn eyes. And then she is not there, of course. Well, she is, but how is he to know that she is taking a nap on a bumpy cot with a cooled cup of cocoa by her side not a hundred meters from him.

The ninth time doesn’t count either because she is in her car and he is crossing the street and he can say he feels a pair of eyes on his back as he crosses but he can’t say that they’re anything more than a late driver, annoyed with his slow, hungover ways.

The tenth time he is not there to see his best friend’s wife regaling the doctor with the emerald eyes, that haunt his dreams every other night by this point, with a story of their frankly ridiculous trip to Disneyland. He is not there to see her begin to shake her head at the offer to join their next shindig when those eyes suddenly land on his face among the crowd in the photo. He is not there when her voice catches but she powers through her refusal.

The eleventh time is literally perfect. She is sitting at a table in one of the smallest bistros in town and her hair is pulled up into a messy but rather fetching bun and her eyes are shining that little bit brighter, perhaps thanks to the glass of wine by her hand, and she is alone, if the book in her other hand is any indication ( _The Beautiful and The Damned,_ he files away and thinks it’s time he explored more than _The Great Gatsby_ from good old Fitzgerald). She is wearing a soft blue dress and a deep red scarf and she looks up when he walks in and her lips twitch in something almost _almost_ like the smile that has become his own elusive green light at the end of the dock. It’s perfect. Except for the fact that he has a bubbly brunette on his arm and Doctor Swan asks for the bill the second they sit down.

 The twelfth time he walks into the ER on Christmas Eve, two years after looking her in the eyes for the first time. No broken bones, no burns, just a thermos of hot chocolate in one hand, a red envelope in the other, a bag of gingerbread cookies under his arm and a spring of mistletoe in his pocket. He waits for two hours in the waiting room, letting confused strangers with actual injuries go before him, bouncing his left leg and scratching behind his right ear, and losing half his cookies to little kids with big eyes. When he is finally the only ‘patient’ left, he walks in and feels a small wave of excitement hit him at seeing her blonde curls spilling over her back. It was a bit of a gamble but he had a feeling she took a lot of shifts around the holidays.

“Seriously?” she exclaims as she turns around to see him standing there. “I know physicians aren’t supposed to give credit to these things but at this point I think you should go to a fortune-teller or something because you seem to have some sort of Christmas curse on you, buddy.”

He grins, wide and exuberant.

“I have to disappoint you, love. I’m in no need of medical assistance this time. And I was thinking more around the lines of serendipity rather than curses.”

She rolls her eyes but they are still the most beautiful and enchanting eyes he has ever seen and he has the fleeting thought that she can probably put a curse on him with barely a glance. She sure seems to have put a spell of some sort.

“I was thinking around the lines of a bad penny,” she deadpans but he is undeterred.

“Ah, but you _were_ thinking about me,” he points out gleefully and risks a few steps closer, the last one clearly toying with the edge of her personal bubble.

“What are you doing here, Mr Jones?”

“And you remembered my name as well.”

“You had to give your name to get in.”

“I had a delivery to make.”

She just raises an eyebrow and that’s all the prompting he needs to put the (by now probably lukewarm but some people like it that way, right?) hot chocolate on the little table to her left, followed by the semi-full bag of cookies and the red envelope.

“What is that?”

“Surprise is an integral part of the custom of gift-giving, Doctor Swan.”

“And why are we exchanging gifts again?” she lifts an eyebrow, her expression hesitating between confusion and curiosity.

“We’re not, since I doubt you have one for me.”

She hums, turns around, opens a drawer and faces him again. And hands him a lollipop. He laughs and her lips twitch and _almost_.

“Well, excuse my presumptuousness. This is very kind of you,” he takes the lollipop and tucks it safely away in his pocket. “So…”

He nods to the envelope and she picks it up with an eyeroll but he sees the way she bites her lip as she carefully tears at its age even though it’s a simple red-coloured envelope that doesn’t even have her name on it. Neither do the tickets for one of the shows from Robbie Williams’ next year tour but he thinks the message is pretty clear.

“That’s very nice of you,” she says evenly, swallows and looks up with a clear challenge swimming in the emerald depths. “I have a friend who loved his last album.”

“Well, isn’t that lucky now?” he replies, his grin not diminishing in the least, which seems to prompt her to take a step closer, definitely into _his_ personal space.

“But I don’t think she appreciates all his work enough for this sort of thing.”

“That’s a shame. I’m sure you’ll think of something…” he leaves it blank but hopeful and she responds faster than he expected.

“Emma.”

“Emma. Emma Swan.”

He likes it. It’s right up there with the colour of her eyes and her sharp but honest tone and the way she rubs her knuckles with her thumb when listening to someone’s symptoms or complaint and the smile he knows will change his life, if only he could earn himself one. It will be a bloody Christmas miracle but he is nothing if not determined.

“And is that all you came here for, Killian Jones?”

Add the way his name sounds on her lips to the list.

“Not precisely,” he grins at the opening but hesitates for a second before sending a last minute wish to Santa and pulling the mistletoe from his pocket.

Doctor Swan eyes the spring he twirls between his fingers and shakes her head and his stomach ties itself in a perfect knot worthy of the best sailor in record time.

“Could’ve left that one at home,” she says and he feels his smile drop for the first time since he walked in.

And that’s when he sees hers for the first time. She is not even smiling at him and yet it is everything – soft and just a touch playful and tinged with a fearlessness and fragility all at the same time. He stands there, staring for a solid 10 seconds before she finally looks at him and lifts her eyebrows expectantly. He blinks himself back into the reality of her eyes twinkling at him and her smile _right there_ and this time he glances up when she does and sees the mistletoe hung on the medical cupboard to their right.

“Do you need me to take it off and wave it right over our he-“ she sounds both amused and exasperated and he wants her to be neither right now so he kisses her.

It’s soft and sweet and brand new and he can now _feel_ her smile and he thinks it’s worth all the broken bones in the world.

When he tells her so, she promises to give him her number, if he promises to stop getting himself in the ER. He nods eagerly and she laughs. And her laugh? Her laugh is a whole other story.


	7. Scotch-tape Me Back Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Character A can’t wrap gifts to save their life. Character B is their neighbour and can help.

This. Next time Mary Margaret asks why Killian doesn't want to go to her annual Christmas party, he will cite this precise moment in space and time - his hair falling in his eyes, 4 out of his 5 fingers with scotch tape stuck on them (leaving him with nothing but futile puffs of air to try to remove the aforementioned hair from his line of sight), holding one end of the wrapping paper down with his knee, a mostly empty cup of not-so-hot-anymore tea leaving a ring on one of the other four ends and the remaining two curling in on him much like his overwhelming frustration with MM's whole Secret Santa project. Or, more precisely, her 'seasonal wrapping mandatory' clause.

He has one bloody hand for fuck’s sake. He thinks he should be allowed a damn ‘terribly impersonal’ shopping bag. Admittedly, he never technically asked MM to make an exception. And that’s because he doesn’t want to be a bloody exception, he doesn’t want extra attention, he most definitely doesn’t want _special_ treatment.

So here he is, scotch-taped to a red sheet with golden stars and reindeers on it. Sometimes he thinks wistfully back to his life a mere two years ago, before he befriended David Nolan and subsequently his wife and subsequently every living creature (human and bird alike) in New York City. Maybe he was drinking a bit too much and spending more time with his characters than actual people but at least he didn’t have glittering bows stuck to the edge of his sleeve back then.

Sighing in defeat, Killian lifts his knee from the paper and watches it roll itself and surround his cup. If cups could glare…

He goes over to his kitchen island and methodically sticks every tiny piece of scotch tape to its edge so he can convince them to let go of his fingers. He has no desire to lose the other hand as well. And to bloody stationary no less.

He glances back at the sad mess in the middle of his living room. A gorgeous, leather-bound edition of fairytales and the wrapping catastrophe around it.

His main problem the way he sees it (aside from the obvious) is that every single person he is on good enough terms with to ask them to come over just to help him wrap a bloody present is going to the damn party. And since the Nolans’ brilliant Secret Santa is designed so that everyone leaves their present under the tree and then randomly draws a number and thus a present, he doesn’t know who is gonna get his. And if MM learns that he gave away his present to anyone… better brave the stationary.

Which leaves him with only one other option. A neighbour.

Now, Killian considers himself a gentleman and he likes to think that he has been nothing but courteous to all his neighbours. Recently. However, he has been living in this building for quite some time, and not all of those were good times. Hence his neighbours may be acquainted with a little more than his prim and proper side. Which is why, generally, excluding the Nolans and their large _large_ circle of friends, he still likes to keep to himself. Especially when at home.

But desperate times call for desperate measures. And some balls.

So, with another sigh of resignation and a mental pep talk, the gist of which is ‘yes, you had a pathetic ‘woe is me’ wanker phase and people witnessed it and those people still live and breathe and at very close proximity too so you’ll just have to suck it up so you don’t disappoint the new people around you who don’t know how much of a pathetic wanker you are’, he visualizes the mail boxes downstairs and starts going down the list of names.

His face is a canvas for a seemingly endless series of frowns, cringes, nose-bridge pinches, furrows, eye-squeezes and some more cringes for the next five minutes. And then – Swan.

His brow smoothes out and he considers it. Emma Swan moved in less than a year ago and thus missed his self-dubbed ‘pathetic ‘woe is me’ wanker phase’. He has been nothing but an exemplary neighbour, helping her with her few boxes, despite her initial reluctance, when she moved in one unnaturally hot spring day, buying her a coffee, _despite her initial reluctance_ , when she flew out of the building without her purse during the whole fire alarm fiasco a few months ago. He may toy the polite/flirtatious line with her a tad too often but, unless his imagination is playing tricks on him, which – possible (he isn’t a fiction author for nothing), recently she hasn’t seemed to mind that much.

However, that plan has a couple of flaws.

#1. Just because she wasn’t around to witness The Worst Hits of Killian Jones, it doesn’t mean she hasn’t heard all about it. No, not with Zelena Mills living across from her. Killian is laboring under no delusions about that (and he has always kind of wondered if that was part of the explanation behind her stand-offish attitude).

#2. Just because Emma Swan might be willing to help him, it doesn’t automatically mean he is willing to ask.

If he needed help installing something on his bloody computer, that would be a different thing. But Killian is no idiot and he isn’t much for vacations by The Nile. He knows damn well that he has a thing about asking for help with things he would’ve been perfectly capable of handling by himself, if he… you know, had the full set of appendages advisable.

So the real question is exactly how much rum he needs to swallow his pride with.

///

The answer turns out to be none.

If he is gonna make himself into a bloody charity case, he thinks he can at least be a sober charity case.

Emma Swan answers her door on the second knock, which is probably good since he isn’t sure how soon he would’ve shrugged and told himself ‘well, you gave it a solid try, mate’ and ran off.

She looks surprised to see him but not strictly unpleasantly so. He takes that as a decent start. Then he takes in her black leggings and her baggy Iron Man t-shirt and the hair spilling from her bun and the spot of what seems a lot like peanut butter on her cheek and he even manages to crack a smile.

Emma inclines her head to the side and frowns when he points to the place where some of her breakfast (afternoon snack? who has peanut butter at 4pm?) remaind. She gets it after a couple of seconds and swipes hurriedly at her cheek while it takes on a slightly rosier hue.

Killian allows himself to grin at her as she clears her throat and straightens her shoulders as if to erase that little moment from her memory. He knows a thing or two about selective memory for the sake of preserving one’s sanity. And dignity.

“Can I help you?” she finally asks, her voice not unkind but not terribly welcoming.

But then again ‘welcoming’ has never been the first word to pop in his mind when he sees Emma Swan. ‘Intriguing’, ‘fierce’, ‘breath-taking’, ‘grumpy’, ‘haggard’, ‘intimidating’, on occasion ‘adorable’, on occasion ‘scary’, once downright ‘blood-thirsty’, never really ‘welcoming’.

He is alright with that. He isn’t one to talk anyway.

“Afternoon, love,” he begins smoothly, regretting not rehearsing a time or two how exactly he will phrase his request. “I… was indeed hoping that you might be able to assist me.”

She rolls her eyes and he is pretty sure it has to do with the way he turned her words around to make them three times their length.

“And what do you need ‘assistance’ with?”

“Gift-wrapping.”

Emma’s eyebrows jump towards her hairline and she snorts. Killian is on his way to take offense and his tail between his legs and beat a retreat when she decides to elaborate on the derisive sound.

“You couldn’t have picked a worse door to knock on.”

It seems like his turn to lift an inquisitive eyebrow.

“I’m…like, a disaster in anything aesthetic. Or whatever,” she waves her hand around and scrunches up her nose adorably and it does wonders for his nerves.

“Well, at least you have two of those,” he says lightly, pointing to the hand still extended in front of her.

Her expression shifts at that but he feels another small doze of nerves seep out of him when she doesn’t go for sympathy or pity or disgust or discomfort or any in the gallery of emotions that he has come to expect. She seems almost surprised. And while he is absolutely certain she couldn’t have missed that particular detail about him (he was slightly limited in helping with her boxes, best intentions aside), she genuinely looks like she forgot all about it.

It makes the tense grin on his lips relax to a more natural one.

“Alright then,” she says with a shrug. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

///

“You could’ve just brought the present to my place you know?”

“You are already doing me a favour, I’m not going to inflict the wrapping paper nightmare on your apartment.”

“Yeah, lets wait for the end result before we label this a favour, I-“

That’s when Emma comes into his living room.

“Wow.”

“Yeah,” Killian chuckles nervously and scratches behind his ear. “Can’t say I didn’t give it a try.”

He definitely tried. All his furniture is pushed to the periphery of the room so that there’s nothing in the centre of it but all manner of stationary – scissors, glue, freaking paper clips (he doesn’t know, alright? he was desperate), the bloody scotch tape, and, of course, three different rolls of wrapping paper and about a dozen bows and ribbons. Every near surface, from his small coffee table to the kitchen island is covered in bits of scotch tape.

There are also cups with different liquids, none of them actually on the coffee table, representing the five stages of gift-wrapping: tea – obvious denial of what’s to come, rum – anger at his complete inability to cope with the simple task, coffee – bargaining, perhaps he simply wasn’t awake enough yet and it could all work out with an extra doze of caffeine, hot chocolate – depression and a desperate need for a sugar pick-me-up, back to tea – acceptance of his failure.

Emma ventures into the holiday-sponsored disaster sooner than he expects and goes around sniffing all of his cups and glasses before picking up the one with some dregs of cocoa on the bottom.

“I’ll have some of that.”

///

Her hair is falling in her eyes, 7 out of her 10 fingers with scotch tape stuck on them (leaving her with no option but to keep asking Killian to push the hair away from her face), holding one end of the wrapping paper down with her elbow, a mostly empty cup of not-so-hot-anymore hot cocoa leaving a ring on one of the other four ends and the remaining two curling in on her much like she is curling her tape-littered fingers around Killian’s heart with every passing second.

“Get this one off my finger!” she waves her left hand in his face and he liberates her thumb.

“Why did you put one on your thumb? That’s the only one I always leave free.”

“Oh, so _now_ you’re a wrapping expert?”

“Swan, I would’ve been done with this ages ago, if I had your number of fingers.”

“Yes, well, some of us are just as hopeless at this with all hands on board. I did warn you.”

He lifts both arms in a clear show of surrender. Honestly, he has no right to bitch about the fact that this is taking her forever since he is shamelessly enjoying watching her huff and curse at the paper and tape in and all over her hands.

“Alright! This… this looks decent, right?”

It looks horrendous but her face is so anxious and yet hopeful and the way she is biting on her lip makes her look years younger and he doesn’t have the heart to point out the edge where you can see the leather of the book peaking out.

“Far superior to anything I could’ve accomplished.”

She gives him a look that tells him she is half offended by the not-exactly compliment and half grateful that he didn’t straight out lie to her.

“OK, pick a ribbon!”

He grabs one of the less flashy, golden ribbons and hands it to her with great ceremony. Emma snorts and bends over the present once again and Killian goes back to watching in fascination the way she cranes her neck and the way the tip of her tongue peaks from the edge of her mouth when she is concentrating really hard.

“Put a finger here.”

He shakes his head and hurries to comply.

“No, over it… I think.”

“Like this?”

“Yes. Now- Ugh!” her growl is an animalistic thing at this point, 99% pure malice and 1% tortured whine. “Killian, get that hair out of my face or I’m taking those scissors and I don’t know if my hair or your book will be the first to go.”

He has the nerve to chuckle under his breath and moves to retrieve his hand from the ribbon tying procedure in progress.

“NO! Don’t you dare!”

“The hair or the ribbon?”

“You don’t need your hand to move my damn hair.”

He swears he feels his heart stutter in his chest at that. _Bloody Hell._ He is not touching her wi- He doesn’t want to- Meaning, of course, _he_ has nothing against it but _she-_

“Killian,” her voice is now 99% tortured whine and 1% malice.

He swallows hard and feels incredibly aware of every single itch of his being as he shuffles forward on his knees in front of her and lifts his left arm to move the pivotal strand of hair that’s right in front of her righteye. His sleeve slides down a little and his stump barely brushes her cheek before he drops his elbow back on the ground and she sighs in utter relief.

“Thank you! Now-“

It takes them three tries to make the damn bow look somewhat decent.

///

Once at his door Emma seems intriguingly reluctant to cross the threshold.

“So, um, I might call you up, if I need any wrapping of my own. Since we obviously need at least three hands between us to get the job done.”

She shrugs and he grins at her, nodding his assent.

“Always at your service, Swan. Thank you and sorry for taking so much of your time.”

She waves him off, scrunching up her face in that way he is quickly becoming terribly enamored with.

“Please, I’m pretty sure this tops scrolling Instagram while doing my laundry.”

He nods again and watches her hesitate one more time. And then he watches as a small light seems to flicker through her eyes and she glances up. Killian frowns at her and then at the top of his door casing.

What is she looking f-

_Oh._

He never has been one for Christmas clichés and now he is paying the price for it.

“Oh, well,” Emma sighs and draws his gaze back to her. “I guess no excuse is still an excuse.”

And then he feels a sharp tug on his Henley and her lips are on his, warm and soft and tasting of his hot cocoa and delight and her chapstick and impatience.

It is the best non-mistletoe kiss he has ever had. It is probably the best kiss he has ever had, period. Which doesn’t stop him from letting out a gruff little laugh when they pull apart, her hands still in his shirt and his hand and stump resting lightly on her hips.

“’No excuse is still an excuse’?”

“Shut up.”

“What was that even supposed to mean?”

“Do you want me to kiss you again or not?”

“Repeatedly.”

///

They become almost notorious at the Nolan’s Christmas parties. Or at least their presents do – the worst wrapped ones from the whole bunch.

They take special pride in it.

 


	8. Married But Not Dating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Character A’s ex will be at the Christmas Party A is attending. Character B poses as A’s fiance. (kinda)

Now, don’t get him wrong, Killian Jones is a lucky bastard and he knows it.

He has known it since the day Emma Swan almost broke one of his ribs with her elbow and spilled his scalding coffee all over his pristine pinstriped shirt, giving him a first-degree burn. Well, alright, he didn’t feel extremely lucky in that _particular_ moment. But he began to change his tune on the very next day when he went to get his daily dose of caffeine (careful to look both ways for wild blondes sweeping down everyone in their path) and found her waiting outside the coffee shop where she’d crashed into him the day before, twiddling her thumbs and glancing somewhat apprehensively in all directions.

The second she saw him is still the only time in his life he has seen a person _cringe in relief_. She was apologetic yet defensive, sincere yet standoffish, uncomfortable yet utterly (adorably) determined to buy him a coffee and a new shirt.

He, being the ass that he is on occasion, managed to stretch her simple attempt to make amends into a proper coffee date, followed by a walk to the harbor, and a day of shopping, at the end of which he didn’t actually let her purchase any of the shirts he picked but managed to talk her into getting herself a stunning pink dress, that Emma kept insisting she had nowhere to wear since it was too elegant for her everyday needs and too innocent for her perp-catching needs (the reason behind their entire ‘meeting’ he found out).

And since then, for some unknown reason, lucky bastard that he mentioned he is, Emma Swan decided that they should make a thing out of their coffee/shopping… thing _._

Which then turned into a movie night thing and a dinner thing and a theater tickets thing and a concert tickets thing and a ‘Killian, I know it’s 3am on a Tuesday night but my car won’t start’ thing and an ‘Emma, I know it’s 8am on a Sunday morning but we need to go to this fair’ thing and a book exchange thing and a ‘Killian, my fridge broke, come help me eat all the food’ thing and a ‘Killian, you need to come pick a new fridge with me ‘cause I get bored in appliances stores’ thing and a ‘No, Emma, I don’t own a TV, what’s so difficult to understand’ thing and a ‘Emma, I have no idea how I turned this router off but I certainly cannot turn it back on’ thing and a reading the book and then watching the movie only to hate on it together thing and a making cookies at 2am despite the fact that we have 3 hands, no butter and no knowledge or experience in baking between us and a ‘my apartment has cockroaches, Emma, I’m coming over’ thing or a ‘There’s no water in the building, Killian, I’m coming over’ thing and a Halloween party thing and a drunken night of tragic backstories thing and a Christmas shopping thing and a sober night of holiday planning.

This last one is what is currently causing him a great deal of anxiety. It’s not that he doesn’t want to go with Emma to her friend’s party. The exact opposite, he was over the bloody moon until two precise details made themselves known to him. Or rather, Emma made them known to him. Rather breezily he may add, all things considered.

#1. One Neal Cassidy will apparently be attending said party.

Now, Killian knows enough about that man (refer to: a drunken night of tragic backstories thing) to be in no two minds about the fact that he deserves to have a number of his teeth removed. By Killian. By Killian’s fist. Which means that there are two things to be concerned about: Emma’s emotional well-being (first and foremost) and his ability to control himself around the bloody bastard.

And then-

#2. “So you wanna come? You know, as my date?”

Killian can’t imagine a man foolish enough to walk in a direction opposite to the one that will take him to Emma Swan. And yet apparently such a man exists. But he surely cannot imagine a man foolish enough to not realize his mistake once he has lost her.

However, he has never been above getting a bit of revenge where it is due so usually he will have no problem assisting a friend to get back at their ex.

But this is Emma. And, frankly, he is not entirely sure he can pretend to date Emma Swan and then go back to pretending he isn’t dating her already.

///

Now, don’t get her wrong, Emma Swan is dating Killian Jones and she knows it.

She may be many things, among which a real pro in avoidance and self-preservation, a gold medalist in The Denial Olympics and a record-setter in ‘How to Run As Fast and As Far as Your Meager Savings Will Take You (and then a bit further)”. She is all that and then some. But she is no idiot.

Did she think she will ever let someone really worm their way into her life, order for her while she is in the bathroom, keep convincing her to buy pretty things she may want but has no use for (how many throw pillows are too many throw pillows anyway?), leave their freaking _ship in a bottle_ (he collects them apparently) in her apartment and take her to the movies without telling her which movie they are seeing? No, most definitely not.

Did she think she will ever feel close enough to someone to text them in the middle of the night, send them selfies throughout the day, update them when she is going out of town, send them surprise cupcake deliveries, borrow their clothes (and perhaps sleep in them), take them to a store in the middle of nowhere because they have socks with little ships on them and leave a toothbrush at their place (she is not losing any teeth to sheer stubbornness)? No, most definitely _not_.

But here she is. Most definitely dating Killian Jones, probably half-living with him and maybe, possibly, kinda half-way in love with him.

Oh, she put him to the test alright. Numerous tests really. Even if he didn’t seem to realize it.

She stopped texting him for a couple of days at least twice during the first month to see if he’ll just let her slip quietly and unproblematically from his life. She tried taking him to over-crowded bars and ditching him long enough for a little team of more-than-willing, not-at-all-trashing-looking ladies to try their luck. She recommended him all her favourite books, populated with underappreciated female characters. She called him over to help her assemble a freaking IKEA shelf.

Eventually she had to give up.

Killian Jones sent her ‘good morning’ texts even on days when he woke up hungover at 2pm, told her he’d had a crush on the florist who worked across the street from his old apartment for an year only to find out she was married with a kid, thought Wendy Darling was the real hero of _Peter Pan_ , and asked her to do jar-opening runs by his place once a week in exchange for pizza.

So, yeah, alright, she is dating Killian. But they haven’t really _said_ it. And yet, when she asks him to come to Belle’s Christmas party with her, you know, _with_ her, as-a-date with her, he barely flinches. Sure he agrees readily enough and there’s a small furrow to his eyebrow as he glances over her shoulder as if he thinks there’s _something_ more to it but he doesn’t like… make a big deal out of it or anything. And, if she knows anything about Killian, it’s that he is a ‘big deal making’ kinda guy so she’s definitely confused, probably a little angry, maybe, possibly, kinda worried.

She looks at the pink dress on her bed and thinks about not putting in on just to spite him but it’s so damn pretty. This dress hasn’t offended her, it hasn’t completely disregarded her grand insecurities-overcoming, commitment-admitting moment. The dress deserves better.

  ///

She looks bloody gorgeous and he thinks he should be given a medal for only kissing her hand. He thinks he should be given another for barely brushing the small of her back as he leads her out of her apartment.

Then again, she accepts the rose he thought about throwing away six times on the way here with a smile. And she hums, pleased as can be, when he tells her how stunning she looks.

And if he clenches his hand into a tight fist at the thought that she is possibly wearing _that_ dress to inspire a reaction from someone other than him, and if he is already calculating how long he’ll need to rehabilitate himself from fake-dating Emma Swan, well those are his own damn issues now, aren’t they.

///

Emma storms out of Belle’s apartment building and huffs with displeasure as she hears her name echo in the lobby behind her.

Killian bursts through the door seconds after her and runs in front of her, arms up in a placating gesture. She stops and watches in unwilling amusement as he bends, hand on his knee, panting for breath.

“Told you you should start jogging with me,” she mutters – 1 part vindictiveness, 1 part grudging concern.

Killian grumbles something that sounds very much like ‘nice way to make your point’ but he is straightening up and switching gears before she can come up with a snide reply.

“What happened? Was that too much?”

He is a very confusing mess of contrite and annoyed. It’s illogical and unsettling and she doesn’t like it. He very rarely has anything to be contrite about and he is annoyed with her even more rarely.

“Was what too much? You keeping a foot of distance between us all evening and then suddenly being all over me when Neal approached?”

“I wasn’t all o-“

“I mean, _bloody hell,_ Killian! Which part of my history with that guy made you think you have to go ‘stating your claim’ around him?!”

“I was just doing my part!”

“What part?”

“Playing your boyfriend! To… make him jealous or whatever it is you…”

She feels her jaw drop along with her stomach.

“You were pretending?”

It’s small and broken and nothing Emma wanted to be tonight. Nothing she expected to be. But…

“No. Yes. I mean… Gods, Emma,” Killian runs his hand through his hair and turns on his heels, half-away from her, as if he can’t quite look her in the eyes. “I sure don’t want to pretend. I mean, I-I didn’t but… wasn’t that what you wanted?”

“What?”

“To get back at him.”

“At who? Neal?” her voice is high-pitched and incredulous and when she laughs it comes off a bit distorted. “Why would you think I give a flying fuck about Neal?”

“Then why did you ask me to come ‘as your date’?”

“Because I _wanted you to_! Because I thought, gee, we’ve been acting like we’re freaking married for months, might at least acknowledge that we’re dating!”

Emma feels her blood rush and chase the chill from her cheeks even as she watches the little white puffs reach for Killian and disperse sadly as she tries to catch her breath and regain her composure.

For his part, Killian doesn’t look like he is gonna regain his anything anytime soon. Or produce any speech or movement, for that matter. His hair is standing on one side, his eyes are wide and somewhere between bewildered, elated and absolutely flabbergasted, his mouth is hanging slightly open and his own white puffs are desperately trying to reach and mingle with hers.

She thinks of turning on her stylish nude heels and leaving him there on the chilly sidewalk. Then she thinks she better kiss him.

His mouth is cold and unresponsive for three long seconds and then his chapped lips start moving against her own and she sways a bit closer, until the toes of her heels brush his boots, and she feels his fingertips on her jaw, tentative and sweet, questioning and eager, and then his hand slides up and cups her cheek, angling her head just as her tongue prods his lips, and then his tongue swipes inside her mouth and Emma feels herself sigh into him and lean even further in his embrace, her scarf probably tickling his neck and his left forearm sneaking beneath her open coat.

And, yeah, kissing him was a pretty good idea.  And long overdue.


	9. Fortune Favours The Stubborn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Character A vows to do something nice for a stranger during the Christmas time. Character B is that stranger.

“You should do whatever it says.”

Emma’s head shoots up and she lifts an eyebrow at the cute barista. Belle – if her nametag is telling the truth and not just going with the whole fairytale-theme of the coffee shop. The place is most certainly not Emma’s thing. She does not like the big old-fashioned armchairs and the floor to ceiling bookshelves, filled with what looks like every fairytale ever written, she does not stare in appreciation at the large, framed posters of Disney concept artwork and admire all the ridiculously creative names of the beverages on the board. She most certainly doesn’t love the Swan Princess hot chocolate more than any other drink she has ever held it her hand.

Nope. She does not like it one bit. Not her fault the damn place is the closest source of caffeine to her office.

Emma shakes her head and gives Belle a questioning look. The brunette smiles sweetly and points to the rolled up fortune she handed Emma along with her drink.

“We only hand these out in December and you can’t imagine how many people come back in January saying they did what their fortune said and were so grateful for it.”

Emma snorts and feels like the biggest asshole as she watches Belle’s soft features crumble a little at the harsh sound.

_And the Grinch of the year award goes to…_

“Just a thought.”

Belle shrugs sadly and turns her attention to the next person. And Emma… Emma feels an inexplicable amount of rage at her own skepticism well up inside. So what if she thinks life likes to sucker-punch you every day and twice on Sunday? It doesn’t mean she has to go around spewing her pessimism on the world. On people who work in places called _The Storybook Café_ and smile unfailingly and _genuinely_ at every single person in line and wear fucking corsets while doing it.

So with a pinched brow and clenched teeth and the amount of determination she feels only when chasing a guy that ran out on his kids and is living it up in Vegas or something, Emma looks down at the fortune in her hand and vows to do whatever the stupid piece of paper says, be it help old people cross the street all day or adopt a three-legged puppy.

_“Look around. Pick a stranger. Be nice to them for the rest of the week. You might make a friend.”_

Emma cringes. Can’t she adopt two puppies??

But if there’s one thing Emma Swan prides herself on, it’s her willpower (her friends will probably call it stubbornness but she doesn’t have much of those so she can call it whatever she pleases).

It was already Wednesday. She could be nice to someone for the rest of the week.

We’re talking _work week_ here, right?

With a sigh she straightens her shoulders and looks around. The café is pretty empty at 2 in the afternoon.

Two teenage boys are sitting to her left, glued to their phones. Probably not a good idea to go making nice with them. A mother is feeding her kid a muffin behind them. Emma doesn’t have babysitting in her skill set.

And then she sees the guy by the window. His head is bowed over a book and he is tapping his index finger on the edge of the page as if anxious to turn it over. There’s a cup of coffee and a half-eaten cookie in front of him. His hair is dark and mussed up but his shirt looks expensive and freshly ironed.

Verdict? Perfect! Not needy enough to take her up on her offer too enthusiastically but probably well-mannered enough to eventually allow her to pay for his coffee for the rest of the week and be on her merry way.

///

"Excuse me?" she approaches him with a tentative smile that feels all kinds of weird on her face.

The guy looks up from his book and  _oh._

Even though she noted both the good style and physique, Emma didn't bet on him being attractive. His appearance didn't feature in her equation at all until a minute ago and she thinks it wouldn't have still, if he wasn’t _so damn pretty_. She thinks she's excused for taking a moment to collect her thoughts.

That moment gives him plenty of time to lift an inquisitive eyebrow, his eyes flickering over her face but not venturing any lower, which confuses her a little bit. She is a fairly attractive woman herself, and she did just approach him out of nowhere.

"Yes?" 

He doesn't look irritated to be precise but his voice holds a certain note of impatience that immediately makes her shackles rise. She is about to turn on her heel and leave him to his grouchiness but she remembers why she approached him in the first place.

Emma thinks that if being nice to strangers was easy, everyone will be doing it. (Also she may or may not be aware of the fact that she would've been even less welcoming to a stranger chatting her up out of the blue).

"Hi. So umm, you know about this fortune thing they do here?" 

And now he does look irritated.

"Indeed I do. It's in the trashcan over there." 

She is about to interrupt him. Probably with something around the lines of "this isn't about you, buddy", which  _probably_ isn't how being nice to strangers works but oh, well, he is really giving her a run for that Grinch award.

"So..." he finally gives her a quick once-over. "Sleeping Beauty, I'm guessing? Unless refusing to participate in this fortune custom disqualifies me from frequenting this cafe I'd like to go back to my book." 

Emma furrows her brows as she watches the man turn away from her with a clear dismissal. She crosses her arms over her chest, now positively fuming and ready to make him feel really _really_ bad about himself.

"First of all, I don't work here. Second of all, I couldn't care less about your fortune, I'm trying to make good on mine but you sure are making it difficult to be nice to you." 

"Well, perhaps that will tell you that you shouldn't be."

"What?" 

"Nice to me." 

Well... there's not much she can say to that now, is there?

He clearly doesn't deserve her being nice to him. So with one last huff Emma turns around and storms over to the trashcan, the fortune still in her hand about to meet its untimely demise. And then she realizes this is where _he_  must have thrown his fortune and she gets _really_ mad. At herself. Emma is the only person in this world she can rely on so she is not about to break a promise to herself just because some asshole can’t take her niceness.

That's what makes her storm back to his table and that alone. His blue blue eyes and the lonely and guarded hints in them (that may or may not remind her of someone on days when said someone is in their right mind and not trying to befriend strangers) has absolutely nothing to do with it.

"Look here. I've decided to be nice to you so I'm not gonna let you fuck up my... luck or karma or whatever. I don't have much of it anyway. So just... let me be nice." 

The man heaves a sigh, closing his eyes for a second before he turns to her with a humorless smirk.

"I hate to disappoint you, lass, I do. But I don’t require assistance crossing the street, carrying my groceries up the stairs or whatever it is that you were hoping to assist me with. So maybe pick another charity case, aye?" 

"Why the hell are you so damn offended that I want to be nice to you?"

"My, I don't know, love. Perhaps it's because your face certainly doesn't say that you  _want_ to be nice to me. Perhaps it's because I came here to read a book and have a coffee and not be bothered by anyone. _Perhaps_ it's because you obviously looked around and thought 'ah, yes, the handicapped guy must be in need of someone being  _nice_ to him'.

"I  _don't_ want to be nice to you but at least I'm  _trying_ to be. And if you'd just like let me buy you a freaking muffin we could be done with this whole thing. And how on earth are you handicapped exactly?" 

She thinks it's some stupid joke or insult or who knows. But then his eyebrows jump up and he suddenly seems the smallest bit less annoyed with her. Then he lifts his left hand or at least what should've been his left hand but is obviously just his wrist covered by his shirt sleeve and Emma feels all the embarrassment and awkwardness in the entire fucking world shape themselves into a nice cartoon-like anvil and drop on her head.

It kinda makes sense. In a very twisted, how-could-she-forget-the-universe-hates-her kind of way. Of course, she'd fuck up trying to be nice to someone.

"I didn't- I mean, I wasn't-" she groans. "You just looked like I can buy you a coffee without having to go to prom with you afterwards, ok?" 

His eyebrows finally drop back to their rightful place and his lips twitch up for a millisecond and it's probably the first genuine facial expression she has seen from him. It's... kinda cute.

"To be fair, lass, I wouldn't have minded going to prom with you." 

"Never did that," she admits without thinking too much about it.

"All the more reason," he rejoins smoothly. "Look, I don't know what your "fortune" said-"

"Pick a stranger. Be nice to them till the end of the week." 

She leaves out the friends part. She's still not convinced he wants to be mere acquaintances, let alone friends. Not that  _she_ wants to be friends with him-

"Alright then," he nods, seems to mull something over and sighs again as if he is the one about to do  _her_ a favour. "How about I give you my e-mail and every day, for the rest of the week-" 

"Work week," she clarifies, now suddenly apprehensive of what his request might be. 

He seems more and more amused by her though. Does making a complete full of yourself count as being nice?

"Every day, for the rest of the  _work week,_ you send me a list of your favourites."

"Favourite what?" she asks, perplexed rather than apprehensive now.

"Anything. Books, songs, recipes-"

Emma snorts at that.

"Not much of a cook here." 

"Doesn't matter. Whatever you please. I just... find myself lacking some fresh ideas, an outside point of view, if you will." 

"What do you need that for?" 

"Work," he replies simply.

Emma considers it. As far as favours go, it's pretty simple, it’s straight-forward and apparently less personal than it sounds, if he is just doing research for work. Hell, if she doesn't feel like it all she has to do is not write to the guy and that will be it. Which she thinks might be the point, seeing as he looks a good deal more amused but still a tad suspicious about her actual desire to go through with this whole thing.

"Alright." 

"Wonderful!" 

He finally smiles at her for real and reaches into his... satchel? 

(For someone who investigates people for a living, she sure didn’t look this one over too carefully before picking him out.)

He takes out a leather notebook and scribbles what she presumes is his email on the last page before tearing the it off and handing it to her. Then he just gets up and starts putting his things away.

Emma steps back, not sure how to end the whole bizarre interaction. Mr Blue Eyes And Weird Accessories decides for her as he shoulders his bag and turns to her.

"I do hope I haven't dissuaded you from being nice to strangers, lass,"  he sounds sincere and yet there's a teasing gleam in his eye that tells her by now he is well-aware that she has no intention of doing this ever again. "Some might even deserve it." 

Part of her feels like rising to his own defense at that but that would be nothing short of ridiculous so she just rolls her eyes at the semi-bow he sketches before turning around and walking out.

She takes a sip of her coffee, drinkable, if a bit too cooled off at this point, and only then looks down at the piece of paper in her hand.

_Killian Jones_

Well, fuck.

///

A list of her favourite books. The nerve! The cheeky bastard! What was she supposed to do? Send him a list with his name over half of it?

Killian fucking Jones. Of all the people- What even is her life?

For the next 5 hours, after seeing Killian exit a café that probably has more than a dozen copies of his own damn books inside, Emma walks, talks, works and drinks her coffee with every intention of never communicating with the guy ever again.

Except for the whole writer/reader communication and _ugh._

But then it’s 8pm and she is at home with a glass of wine, scrolling down his biography on Wikipedia and glancing at her bookshelf and at the two slips of paper that somehow managed to find their way into her pocket and then out of her pocket and onto her table.

It still nags at her. That she made a promise to herself to do the damn thing. _Not_ Killian fucking Jones. He is not on her mind. Not in any way but as the guy who has found yet another way to foil her plan of _being nice to him._

What IS her life?

Around 10pm she pulls her hair into a bun, re-fills her glass, orders some pizza, deposits her laptop on her crossed legs, pushes her reading glasses up her nose and starts typing.

She sends him a list of her ‘favourite ways to avoid talking to strangers’:

\- walking around with her headphones on and meaningfully tapping her index finger on them when someone tries to talk to her  
\- looking up and ahead and pretending to admire the architecture  
\- smiling cluelessly and then saying whatever Spanish words she can remember from the dozen or so classes she took in high school  
\- burying her nose in her book  
\- “I’m really in a rush but this guy over there looks like he might be able to help you”  
\- pretending to sway and almost spill her coffee in stranger’s general direction  
\- a good old you’d-fuck-off-if-you-know-what’s-good-for-you glare

She is queuing up _Modern Family_ and starting on her third slice of pizza when he emails her back.

_I’m partial to #4 myself._

She scrolls down to look at her list again and groans around a mouthful of dough and cheese.

“Asshole.”

///

After his snarky reply the previous night, she spends the time until lunch on Thursday laboring under the belief that she will not send him another list.

Then he sends her an article entitled ‘Look up and admire the architecture’ and calls her a copycat so she sends him two.

‘favourite ways to ditch a date that’s sucking everything good and pure left inside me’

_What do you mean you pretend you’re there to arrest them? Are we allowed to incarcerate people who ask to hear the specials three times now? What a time to be alive!_

‘favourite pizza toppings’ just because.

_Pineapple on pizza is an abomination, Swan. I’m not sure I will read another food list from you._

///

‘favourite ways to avoid unclogging the drain in the bathroom until I can almost swim out after taking a shower’

_Adulthood looks well on you, lass._

‘favourite shops that I can’t afford and I’m not upset about it because _what even are those pants?!’_

 _What are those_ shoes _as well? Why do women hate their feet?!_

‘favourite fabric softeners (I have a thing, ok?)’

She almost blocks him when he replies that he doesn’t use a softener.

Fridays so close to Christmas are slow, _ok_?

///

‘favourite movies that keep me on the edge of my seat so much I forget to eat my popcorn’

_Why do you have any popcorn left by the time the movie starts? Life’s too short, love!_

‘favourite ways to mess with my asshole neighbour from downstairs’

_You drew WHAT on his turtle?_

‘favourite muffin recipes that never look like they do on the picture when I make them’

_What is the pineapple doing here again, Swan?!_

‘favourite rides in Disneyland’

She almost goes and books them tickets when he replies that he’s never been. Then she realizes it’s Saturday.

///

She starts typing five different lists on Sunday and deletes all of them and gets angry at herself for not being able to take her mind off Killian fucking Jones (that’s his middle name now far as she is concerned).

By 6pm she gets angry at him for not emailing _her_ and that’s when she decides she’s done with this whole stupid thing.

After midnight she sends him ‘favourite books’. 4 out of 10 are his. He doesn’t reply.

///

Emma takes a hearty gulp of her hot chocolate and tries not to shudder as she messages her mark what she’ll be wearing for their ‘date’. She is just setting her mug down when a fortune slip appears by her elbow so she turns around, ready to tell Belle off because she _explicitly_ asked not to be given one.

“Look, Belle-“

“I was thinking of applying for Captain Hook but I’ll take that as a compliment.”

She blinks up at him and fails to respond to his tentative smile so he replaces it with a nervous scratch behind his ear as he nods to the fortune. She chances a look.

_‘Try something new.’_

“I’m also very partial to the Captain’s Americano so I thought I’d rather give those rides a try instead?”

She doesn’t turn back to him right away. She has one too many visuals of him in a spinning teacup to react that fast.

“It’s Disneyland. Strangers _will_ be nice to you,” she warns gravely when she finally does and she thinks it’s rather an accomplishment how fast she got to his genuine smile this time around.

“Long as you promise to be nice to me as well.”

His eyebrows do something absolutely _obscene_ and she can’t help but laugh.

“Your week is up. I make no promises.”

///

She thinks she’s quite nice to him as she kisses him beneath every mistletoe they find on their way to Disneyland and back.

He thinks he’s quite nice to her even after two of the rides on her favourite list make him almost let go of his lunch sooner than he is ready.

She is rather nice to Belle aw well when January comes around, even if she glares at her ‘I told you so’ face.

He is rather nice to her downstairs neighbour the weekend he helps her move out, even if just to make up for the way Emma has been ‘accidentally’ dropping stuff on the floor since 7am.

She is extremely nice to him even when he puts her name on the first page of his new book for all the world to see.

He is extremely nice to her even when she steals his thunder three days before he is to propose

She promises to be nice to him for the rest of their lives.

He doesn’t seem so opposed to that.


	10. Seasonal Greetings (or whatever you write here)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Character A and Character B both sign up for a Christmas Pen Pal project to exchange postcards.

There are not many constants in Emma Swan’s life.

Well, no, that’s a lie. There are plenty but she doesn’t like to think about most of them.

Like the fact that if any difficulty or inconvenience presents itself, people will always, without fail, give up on her. Like the fact that no place has ever felt like home, except maybe that one small brown house when she was three, the one she barely remembers but can still feel the warmth and the belonging for the very first time, the one with a family inside that eventually gave up on her as well. Like the fact that she can pack up all her things and leave in less than an hour. Like the fact that ‘romance’ has brought her a hollow and dirty feeling at best and a pregnancy scare at worst. Like the fact that she is 25 years old and has yet to make a single friend in this cold, self-sufficient and uncaring world.

Except for one who Emma is pretty sure most people would say doesn’t really count and who is probably far from thinking of her as much as she thinks of him in moments when she is no longer just willingly alone but lonely to the bone.

The only constant in Emma Swan’s life, that she likes to think about, is Killian Jones.

There are few things that she is grateful for from the numerous schools she was tossed between but that Christmas Pen Pal project in 7th grade is definitely one of them.

///

_2004_

‘Hey Killian,

Mrs Lucas gave me your address. She said you are one of the two people from Ireland who volunteered to take part in the Christmas Pen Pal exchange. Most kids got addresses for people in England because there their school makes them take part. Like our school here. But you volunteered. That’s kinda stupid. Why would you care to send a postcard to a person on the other side of the world? Are you trying to make friends? I’m not an expert but I don’t think that’s how you make friends. Anyway, Merry Christmas, I guess.

Emma’

‘Dear Emma Swan,

I was quite excited to receive your address. Isn’t this a great idea? You can hear about how someone across the world is spending Christmas. Or whichever holiday you celebrate. Or just having a jolly few days of school, I suppose.

I hope you are indeed having a wonderful holiday – lots of friends and family, a big beautiful tree and decent Christmas carols, and Christmas sweets, and presents and all.

I’m spending Christmas with my brother and we’re not really exchanging presents this year but we got a tree and spent all night decorating it after Liam (my brother) came home last night. And it looks like it will be a white Christmas so I’m quite excited. But also I’ve found that whenever the holiday cheer is waning, a cup of hot chocolate with cinnamon always does the trick.

Wishing you a Happy Christmas and a Wonderful New Year!

Kindest greetings,  
Killian Jones’

She receives his card in January and feels like the biggest Grinch ever. She contemplates writing him again to apologize but then things start falling apart around her as they always do and she never talks herself into it.

But when they tell her to gather her things, she tucks his address in the inside pocket of her backpack. Just in case.

///

_2005_

‘Hello Killian,

I’m sorry for being such a Grinch last year. I wanted to apologize but then you gave your address for a Christmas exchange, not to have me sending you random letters so I thought I’d better wait for Christmas again. So, yeah, sorry about that. I hope you and your brother had a great Christmas. Mine wasn’t all that you wished me but it wasn’t the worst either. The hot chocolate helped.

So Merry Christmas again! Hope it’s a better one.

Apologies and greetings,  
Emma Swan’

‘Dear Emma,

You’re not the first, and I guess you won’t be the last, person to tell me I don’t have a clue how to make friends. I’m sorry you got forced into this, it sounded fun to me and I never thought they made you do it in other schools.

So I thought I won’t bother you anymore but I got your new address from your teacher a couple of months after Christmas last year so then I decided I’ll send you a card this year as well. Just in case you changed your mind.

Happy Christmas, Emma!

(Hope you’ve gotten better at making friends, you should give me some tips.)

Greetings,  
Killian Jones’

 

 

///

_2006_

‘Dear Killian, (that’s how you’re actually supposed to start a letter, right?)

I’m gonna apologize again for that first letter because I got yours last year (I never thought they’d send you my new address but I guess it’s kinda cool that they did). It was really nice of you to send me one even though I wasn’t all that nice to you. I think you’d be a great friend actually. So maybe you should give me tips (I think I’m getting worse at making friends and not better).

Merry Christmas ! Enjoy the hot cocoa!

Seasonal greetings (or whatever you write here),  
Emma’

‘Dear Emma,

I was surprised to receive your letter last year. Pleasantly so. And you can send me any random letters you want, I won’t mind.

Liam and I had a nice Christmas but this year I’ve been working with him at the docks so I can actually buy him a present so I’m quite anxious to go find the perfect one tomorrow. I hope your Christmases keep getting better and better.

Happy Christmas and don’t forget the cocoa!

Yours sincerely,  
Killian’

When they give her 15 minutes to throw her things in a bag in April, the first thing she grabs is her baby blanket. The second is Killian’s address and cards.

In August she sends him an empty (the prettiest she could find) postcard and her new address and hopes it’s still the same by the time Christmas comes.

///

_2007_

‘Dear Killian,

I hope you managed to get Liam that perfect present. And I hope you got my new address as well. It’s ok, if you didn’t though. I get moved around quite a lot so it’s kind of a Christmas miracle (look how non-Grinchy I am, writing about miracles, ~~you should be proud~~ ) that I’ve gotten all of your cards so far.

Merry Christmas and may your cocoa be always warm!

Yours,  
Emma’

‘Dear Emma,

Thank you for sending me your new address! Storybrooke looks very beautiful, I hope you get to stay there for awhile.

We’re about to move in the spring as well so I’ll be sending you a new address soon but for now here’s a picture of our Christmas tree (we got a real big one this year, ~~I’m quite proud of it~~ ).

I think you have some hidden friendship talents yourself, lass, but thank you, I sure hope I manage to make some new friends when we move.

Wishing you a happy and white (Storybrooke looks like a great place for a snowy holiday) Christmas!

Yours,  
Killian’

She stays in Storybrooke for three years and exchanges Christmas cards with Killian each and every one. Their letters are never more than a page long but what little she learns about Killian, she memorizes and treasures. He’s three years older than her. He loves the sea and working at the docks is hard but he doesn’t mind one bit. He loves his brother more than anything in the world.

She tells him why her address keeps changing. She tells him her favourite book as a child was Peter Pan and she got a battered copy of Christmas Carol her second December in Storybrooke. She describes the buttercup tattoo she is getting.

When 2011 rolls around she is twenty and leaves Storybrooke with a need for something _more_ and no idea where to look for it. The first things she packs are Killian’s address and letters.

When 2012 hits his brother is in the Navy, she can tell he is both proud and afraid and it’s the first time she thinks about how much she wants to see his face and hug him.

///

_2013_

‘Dear Killian,

I moved again. As you should know, if you got my card a couple of months ago. I just didn’t feel like there was anything left to explore in Chicago and I can get a crappy waitressing job anywhere. Though recently I’ve been thinking that I have so much experience with changing places and disappearing and looking for people who have disappeared that I might try to put that to some use, you know? Does that sound stupid? I don’t really know what I’m gonna do but I’m sure I can be doing it here as well. Or somewhere else. Anywhere really.

I hope your brother is doing well in the Navy. I don’t know what to tell you about joining him, to be honest. I mean, it sounds like quite the adventure, like you said, but a bit on the unnecessary dangerous side? I mean, you can be brave without being reckless. Just let me know when you’ve made your mind. So I know whether or not I should stop sleeping soundly at night.

Merry Christmas, Killian!

Yours always,  
Emma’

It’s the first time in almost a decade that she doesn’t receive a Christmas card from Killian. And she tries to tell herself he simply forgot (but that’s not Killian and she knows it), tries to tell herself he simply didn’t get her new address (but somehow his cards always find her and she knows that too), tries to tell herself she will get his email or something the second she can afford a freaking laptop (but somehow not having a new letter in her hands on Christmas is all she can think about).

She tries to tell herself nothing bad has happened (but she fails).

It is the closest she has ever come to taking his address out and buying a plane ticket rather than a stamp.

///

_2014_

‘Dear Killian,

I hope everything is alright. I know maybe you just didn’t get my address or the post fucked up or something but it kinda sucked not to hear from you on Christmas last year.

I’m still here but will probably be sending you a new address within a month or so. On the plus side, the whole searching for people thing is paying off and in case you need to find someone who skipped on their bail in the future, just let me know. Though by the time I get your letter they would’ve probably switched a dozen states or countries or whatever.

Which brings us to my question. If you ever see this and get back to me, maybe we should exchange emails or something? I mean, this is wonderful and all but I was thinking we should make use of that magical invention called the Internet. If you want to.

Well, I hope you’re safe and happy.

Merry Christmas, Killian. Don’t forget the cocoa, wherever you are.

Love,  
Your Emma’

‘Dearest Emma,

I’m so incredibly sorry for not wishing you a happy Christmas the previous year.

I did indeed join Liam in the Navy and perhaps had I read your sound advice earlier, we would’ve come out of it not so worse for wear. We are both alright now though. Liam gave me quite a scare there and my own bloody shoelaces take a bit longer these days but we’re out of the woods. And the Navy.

I hope you haven’t followed my example and gone off on some perilous adventure on your own. Though it is my firm belief that whatever it is you decide to do and wherever you decide to go, you will never fail.

I really missed you, Emma. I know that probably sounds ridiculous because we barely exchange two letters a year and I did get one from you but you do happen to be my oldest and best friend so here we are.

Happy Christmas, love! Made a cup of cocoa and thinking of you.

All my love,  
Killian’

///

_2015_

She sends him a card, those underwater goggles he’s been raging about for the last two months and a three-page letter and he one-ups her with five pages and the most exquisite edition of Peter Pan she has ever seen.

_‘I do so hope you are not still partial to the naughty devil over the dashing captain, Swan, since I’ve found myself growing old and losing appendages in the last few years.’_

She rolls her eyes and puts his letter aside to type out a reply in her email before she has forgotten.

They email each other three times a day. On busy days. And yet, when she comes to the end of her letter, she hesitates over the ‘Send’ button like she has done every time in the last months, thinks about asking him if she should find him on Facebook, Instagram, Snapchat or whatever the kids are into these days.

And as the coward she is, she clicks her mouse without another word.

Faceless fantasies of a happily ever after are safe – wonderful and bright and hopeful and vibrant and so hopelessly unrealistic but safe.

Giving them a face, _his face_ , is dangerous. It can make her fairytale a concrete might-be, could-be, should-be. It’s her last line of defense.

///

_2016_

The only constant in Emma Swan’s life, that she likes to think about, is Killian Jones.

He has been a flicker of light in her worn-gray life for the last 12 years, a steady beam in the last 2.

They were quite lost in the postal nightmare the first few years and lucky to get their cards in the first half of January. But with time they’ve perfected their timing so that they are always holding each other’s letters by Christmas Eve.

Which is probably why Emma is bouncing her foot unconsciously and glowering at Jude Law and Cameron Diaz’s ridiculous flirting on her screen and squeezing her cup of cocoa perhaps a bit too tightly at 11pm on Christmas Eve.

Not only has she not received her letter, she hasn’t had an email from Killian in the last two days.

Panic wasted no time in trying to set in but she quickly told herself that there was no way he’d received her letter before sending his own, no way he’d read certain beyond-cheesy, my-bin-is-overflowing-so-I’m-sending-this-one, suck-it-up-Emma-it’s-been-12-years, all-I-want-for-Christmas-is-to-wish-you-a-merry-one-in-person sentiments and decided to never write to her again.

There is simply no way.

So why is she grinding her teeth harder and harder with every minute that passes? It’s not like the postman is suddenly gonna remember her lonely mailbox at 11:35pm on Christmas Eve.

If he will just reply to her damn emails maybe-

There’s a knock on her door and Emma, for one beyond-ridiculous moment, thinks the postman has indeed come to rectify his grievous error. Then she shakes her head, tells herself to fucking chill and go direct the lost person that is probably looking for the party upstairs.

She opens the door and well… she wishes she was the one throwing a party that guy would show up for.

Emma may or may not have been paying very little attention to male specimens on the streets in the last year or so. She may or may not have reduced her bar-visiting hours almost to zero. But her eyes still function very well. And the man before her is nothing if not a delight for the sense of sight.

“Emma Swan?”

For the sense of hearing as well. And she can just bet that he will score well with smell, touch and taste as well.

Emma shakes her head to dislodge those particular thoughts and scowls a bit at herself. She has come across her fair share of extremely attractive men in the aforementioned last year or so and none have had much effect on her.

She blames it on her Christmas card withdrawal and clears her throat.

“Who’s asking?” she demants, a bit harsher than is probably reasonable.

But the guy just grins as if that’s exactly what he expected, what he was hoping for, looking for. What even? Emma tries to get mad at his cheeky face. And fails miserably.

Before she can give it another try, he brings one of his hands from behind his back and hands her a white envelop.

Emma tries not to get freaked out but the apprehension in her wide eyes must be clear because his grin softens into an encouraging smile as he nods at her to take it. She does so with extreme caution, not touching him at all.

There’s no name or address so she tears the envelope without ceremony and takes out a fairly simple Christmas card showing a fireplace with two solid cups on the wooden floor before it. She chances the quickest of glances at the guy before opening the card. He looks somewhat apprehensive as well by now, even if his smile is still in place.

_‘I sure hope you have some hot cocoa with cinnamon.’_

Her eyes fly back up to his so fast she feels a little dizzy. But then again, there might be another explanation for that as well.

“Killian?”

If she stops to think about it, she might describe her tone as painfully hopeful.

He brings his other hand from behind his back as well. Or what’s supposed to be his hand but is not. He looks terribly awkward in comparison to his air just a minute ago.

“Happy Christmas?” he kind of asks, his smile all sorts of nervous.

She throws her arms around him and kisses him until there’s no question exactly how happy the holiday or she is.

///

_2017_

She scoffs at the 13th mistletoe he hangs in the apartment and half-mockingly informs him that there are still none in the shower. He takes the bait like the wonderfully mistletoe-obsessed man that he is and she takes the opportunity to slip the red envelope from her nightstand drawer under his pillow.

 


	11. It Wasn't Meant to Stick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Character A and Character B broke up, but now they meet at a Christmas party.

Emma Swan goes to Elsa’s party dressed to kill and ready to win the break-up. Then she sees one Killian Jones, head thrown back, hair in completely disarray, laugher pouring heavy and warm, and she thinks she can win every single thing she tries to for the rest of her life and she would’ve still lost the one that matters the most.

She grabs a glass of wine and shimmies out of the window and onto the fire escape ladder before anyone but Elsa can notice that she has arrived. She looks out at the lights of New York City and sighs, watching her breath curl into a fragile white cloud and float away from her, dissolve as if it’s never been. Much like her happiness.

Killian Jones, you see, is many things to her. The first man to hold a door open for her, the first man to ask her what her favourite quote from a movie they’d just seen was, the first man to make her breakfast because apparently she is shit at remembering to eat (she is shit at it, she can’t remember having breakfast since the last time she was in Killian’s apartment), the only man to learn exactly how she likes her bath, the only man to make it for her, the only man who’s seen her sick and taken her temperature and furrowed his brows at her and told her she needs more fluids (she’s shit at that as well, drinking water or juice or anything that’s not coffee or cocoa), the only man to tell her his home feels like home only when she’s there.

It’s three days after that last one that she breaks up with him. And, in retrospect, Emma thinks some of that home talk got to her. Made her feel so damn good, she started thinking she’d imagined it.

Long story short, Regina offers her a better job, with better pay and more responsibility in their Los Angelis office. Long story short, Emma doesn’t consider taking the job for even a second, isn’t tempted in the slightest, isn’t scared in the slightest by not being tempted in the slightest. Long story short, when Killian voices her very thoughts, asking how she’s planning to say ‘no’ to Regina, she flies off the handle completely, asking why he thinks he can make decisions for her and if he wants to speak to Regina himself since apparently he’s the one calling the shots. Long story short, she doesn’t let him apologize or explain himself even for a second and, by the time she is asking why he thinks he’s so special that she’d throw away a fantastic job offer for some regular sex, he’s not even trying to.

Long story short, she never means for it to stick.

But Killian doesn’t call her on the night she storms out of his apartment. And he doesn’t call her the day after. Or the day after that. And each day it gets harder for her to come up with something, anything, that can explain her behaviour. And each day she thinks that if he truly wanted to be with her, he would’ve at least tried. At least once.

So five days after a break-up she didn’t intend or want but has no idea how or if she should fix, Emma goes out and gets absolutely hammered. Or at least hammered enough to decide that Graham is too sweet and nice to be drinking by himself, enough to decide that at a certain angle he looks just the tiniest bit like Killian. And just the tiniest bit is all she needs.

She likes to think that she wasn’t drunk enough, could’ve never been drunk enough, to do anything more but let her uncoordinated lips initiate a sloppy kiss and prompt her foggy brain to distort it into a poor imitation of what she is really craving. And Graham _is_ nice and she _is_ in love with someone else and she is _not_ a complete asshole, much as the last week could prove otherwise.

So Emma remembers pulling back and beginning to apologize and realizing just how big of a disaster her whole life is when she sees Liam and Elsa not five feet away from the booth in which she is intimately pressed to one of Killian’s acquaintances, if not friends.

She waits for the fallout for days and again nothing comes. Until it does and it’s not Killian or Liam, or even Graham. It’s Elsa. Elsa who calls her and uses the frigid tone, that Emma has witness but never had directed at her before, says that while she has absolutely no right to tell Emma what to do, she did think they were friends and she would like to advice or request, or whatever verb Emma chose appropriate, that she try to keep her relations within their friend circle _friendly_ for at least a few months.

Considering her life, Emma thinks it a real testament to the horror of that moment that she’d never wanted the earth to open up and swallow her whole more that right then and there.

That was three months ago.

Three days ago Elsa called again. To ask her to her Christmas party. Emma was silent (dumfounded) for so long that the other woman started asking if she was still there. Emma didn’t think it was too wise (what she did think was that she was most likely being played or mocked or something). Elsa did. She’d asked Killian. He thought so too.

And once upon a time Emma herself thought she could be friends with Elsa (once upon a time she thought she could make Killian happy and let herself be happy too but oh well) so she said ‘yes’.

Three hours ago she decided this whole thing was definitely a ploy for Killian to show her how little he cared about being separated from her and how quickly he’d moved on. And that’s when she decided to win the break up. Not because she deserves to because she knows she bloody doesn’t (and she probably _can’t_ since she can’t even purge his vocabulary from her thoughts yet) but because the thought of Killian with someone else, someone else touching him, someone else humming the most annoying  Christmas songs in his ear… yeah, that’s not fun.

Which clearly means she has lost the break-up. Because he obviously didn’t find the thought of her with someone else unbearable enough to try to get her back.

Which clearly means she has to fake winning the break-up.

Queue the killer red dress. Which is currently ridding up and making her regret leaving her coat inside. She has no sooner thought that than she feels heavy fabric engulf her shoulders. Heavy fabric that smells like leather and-

“Swan.”

She acutely feels every bit of regret she has accumulated in the last three months, one week and three days slam into her at once, making her next puff of air bigger, denser, full of apologies she wishes he could just read in the dark even if he doesn’t much care for them.

“Hey.”

She swallows, tells herself she is strong (tells herself she has hardened her heart enough over the years to be able to take these 5 minutes of stilted small-talk and stifled pleas and excuses) and turns around to face him. She expects him to be looking out at the city but finds his blue eyes fixed firmly, if sadly on her face.

Sometimes that’s the worst part, that, no matter how little he may care now, in that one moment she knows she caused Killian pain.

(That’s always the worst part.)

“Gonna catch a chill, love,” he says and the word is just as soft as his smile even if it’s lacking the confidence she has always known him to use it with.

And just like that Emma Swan sees how much of an idiot she is, how far off the mark, how fucked up to think that Killian would even contemplate bullshit like “winning the break-up”, would tell his sister-in-law she can invite her to her Christmas party for any other reason but to give Emma a chance to be a part of something she tossed carelessly away. And she laughs, small and choked, and looks down at where her heels are lodged between the stairs’ grates.

She realizes for someone so strong she has been incredibly weak, unable to pronounce two simple words for more than three months.

“I’m sorry.”

“That’s alright.”

“It’s really not.”

She laughs again, louder and harsher, laughs at her illusions of having hardened her heart. The one that is currently fighting her with every beat, telling her she is an asshole that has kept it imprisoned long enough, demanding she let it go to Killian because it likes him more than her. Always has.

“Well, it looks like things haven’t exactly worked themselves out for either of us,” he sighs and she feels him finally takes his eyes off her (realizes they were warming her almost as much as his jacket). “But it _is_ alright. Nothing wrong with wanting different things, I suppose.”

Emma turns to him with a frown, sees one on his face as well. She knows that frown, the one that says he’d like to say something else but doesn’t think it will help, the one that says he’s angry but doesn’t think he has the right to be. She’s known him to be wrong on both accounts and her heart is having enough of a tantrum to make her prompt him into speaking his mind when he goes on.

“Why are you in New York anyway?”

“What?”

“Did you come back from LA or…?”

“I never went to LA,” and then because she is a glutton for punishment and because she feels like she needs to know exactly how much he can possibly hate her, needs it for the PowerPoint presentation she’s preparing for her dumb heart.  “I kissed Graham.”

“I know.”

She waits. And waits. And gets progressively angry. She has been waiting for a reaction from him since the moment she slammed his door and he is still not giving her anything.

“So I obviously wasn’t in LA,” she grounds out in aggravation.

“I thought you’d left before Liam said anything. Then I thought you’d left after.”

“I didn’t. I never went to LA. I never _meant_ to go to bloody LA,” he frowns at that but doesn’t look at her and Emma feels herself gather momentum. “I never meant any of it. Fuck, Killian, it wasn’t meant to stick!”

“I gathered that, Emma,” he grits out and it’s the first time she’s heard the anger simmering beneath the surface (part of her cheers in sick satisfaction, while her poor heart glares and snips at her from inside for making him say her name like that). “Don’t you think I would’ve called, if I didn’t get that loud and clear?”

She stands there gaping at him until he turns to her, eyes blazing and that familiar challenge in them. She loves to take him up on those. She doesn’t have a fucking clue what it’s doing there right now.

“Isn’t knowing that the perfect reason to call me?!”

“For ‘some regular sex’?” he asks, eyebrows jumping up but his lips pursed in a thin, frustrated line. “Much obliged but I was- I _am_ looking for something meant “to stick”.”

She is so stupefied she brushes right pass his mocking her choice of words.

Killian Jones is many things to her. A notch on her headboard is not one of them. Which, it will appear, is exactly what he thinks.

“I’m not talking about us! I mean I am but-“ she groans and reaches out, barely registering his surprised intake as she squeezes his arm. “Breaking-up. That was never meant to stick. I never- It wasn’t.”

She looks up at him, searching his eyes, watching him go from anger to confusion to surprise to hope and right back to confusion.

“Then why didn’t you call?”

He sounds so torn, so genuinely offended and perplexed and _lost_. Ugh, she is sure her heart is 10 seconds away from giving her a heart attack on purpose.

“I thought maybe you did. Maybe… you wanted it to stick,” she bites into her lip to keep from saying anything else, swallows a slightly delirious snort at the amount of outrage and indignation in his eyes.

“You thought I wanted to spend a day away from you? You thought I wanted to spend _months_ away from you?!”

“Couldn’t blame ya.”

“Well, Swan, I didn’t.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yes, now I see where you were going with that.”

She chuckles and the second she feels him shuffle a step closer, she drops her forehead to the arm she is still clutching.

“Do you now?”

“Do I what, love?”

It’s still doesn’t sound quite the same but closer now and she feels his left wrist slip beneath his own jacket and run up and down her back.

“Want to be away from me?”

“Far as humanly possible.”

She lets go of the arm she’s clutching and punches it. He grunts, grabs her hand and pulls her to stand up. She thinks he is about to kiss her but his lips just fall to her forehead and stay there so she slips her arms around him and listens to him breathe against her.

“Tell me then,” he murmurs and she feels the words against her skin, warm even as his lips are chapped from the cold.

“What?”

“Things that aren’t meant to last.”

“The yogurt in my fridge for one,” she starts off teasingly and feels his chest rumble against her own when he chuckles. “The holiday shopping madness. That plant in the corner of your living room.”

“Oy. I’m watering that regularly.”

“Regina’s new ‘happy employees do a better job’ policy. The Christmas drinks at Starbucks. Elsa’s frown at Liam juggling with their bowls. Those pitiful little snowflakes that are starting to fall. My looks.”

“Fine wine and all that, love.”

“My patience with the absolute witch that moved upstairs a couple of weeks ago. My ability to fuck up.”

He squeezes at her waist and drops his lips a little lower so he can kiss her eyebrow.

“Tell me,” he whispers as his nose nudges hers gently.

“The things that are meant to last?”

He nods and kisses her cheek and she slips her hands lower to anchor them at his hips.

“Granny’s chocolate pie recipe. The little origami swan you made me on our first date. The pathetic-looking ship we made in that bottle.”

“I’ll show you pathetic looking,” he admonishes, turning his head to bite at her earlobe and make her squirm with laughter.

“Regina’s impatience with the state of my desk. My addiction to hot chocolate. Liam’s attempts to open a champagne bottle with a knife.”

“May we all survive tonight.”

“With my luck, _your_ looks.”

He laughs, warm and heavy and against her jawline as he dips down to kiss the dimple of her smile.

“With some more luck, your patience with my fuck ups.”

He grumbles but nips gently at her chin and the way his left arm presses her closer _closer_ almost makes her deviate from the chosen path.

But then she brings one of her hands between them and grasps his chin gently, nudging him up until he is looking her in the eyes. She goes on her tiptoes to make up for the couple of centimeters her heels leave between them and leans forward so her lips can breathe out the word against his.

“Us.”

Then she kisses him. And thinks maybe her heart forgives her the moment he does.


	12. Strays

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Character A is stuck working in coffee shop on Christmas Day and Character B is the lonely soul spending their whole day there.

Emma's problem is that she has very few friends. Don't get her wrong though, she doesn't want more friends. It's just that the fewer friends you have, the more attention they expect you to pay to them, she has discovered.

In Mary Margaret's case that means she expects Emma to meet up with her at least twice a week and call her double that. And none of that small talk bullshit. MM wants the real stuff, the emotional stuff. And she is not afraid to supply the conversation with enthusiasm and positivity when Emma is lacking either (or both as is often the case). Honestly, if she didn't love both her friend and her fiance so damn much, she probably wouldn't make it through the next ten months.

Engaged for barely two months, David and MM are already so deep into the wedding planning, Emma is getting whip-lash at the mere idea of ever doing anything of the sort. And that's not even in the realm of possibility. Like you can go to an alternative universe, a few hundred years into the past, and you still might have to brainwash the Emma Swan version that they have there for wedding bells to be even a possibility for her. And yet. She smiles covertly (after she cringes overtly) when she sees Mary-Margaret feed David a piece of her cake or when he grasps her hand for no apparent reason and kisses her fingertips. She tries to ignore it - the little flutter, the maybe, eventually, somehow, someday, some _one_... She tries to ignore it despite the fact that MM does everything to make that impossible for her.

Being friends with Ruby, on the other hand, means she expects the most well-thought out gift that shows just the right amount of Emma's love and her willingness to spend her hard-earned cash on Ruby's stylish ass.

Emma, saver extraordinaire, prefers the latter. She'll take pretty much anything in the face of MM's eleventh call in the last two days.

"For the last time, guys - I'm fine," she sighs into her scarf and presses the phone closer to her ear to hear her friend's voice over the wind whipping her hair in every direction.

Of all the days to forget her beanie.

"I can't believe you talked me into letting you stay in New York. You should've come with us."

She can hear the pinch of MM's brows and the guilt seeping through.

"Yes, because that's the way to strengthen the shaky relationship with your step-mother - bring some strays in for Christmas."

"Emma-"

"MM, I'm fine. So it's Christmas Day, big deal. Ruby will be back from her Grandma's tomorrow and we'll celebrate, and then you and David will be here for New Year’s, which we all know I much prefer because, hello, champagne," she rattles off as she pushes into the first cozy cafe she sees, grateful to leave the gathering clouds and increasing snowfall behind the heavy door.

"I know but it's Christmas and-"

"And I'm about to have myself a nice hot chocolate," she says evenly, trying to keep her irritation under control as she comes to realize the inside of her left shoe is soaking wet.

She wouldn't trade Mary Margaret's love and care for anything in the world. But seeing as she is currently hundred of miles away, warm and comfy, probably with David's arm around her and getting buzzed on Regina's cider, Emma thinks she has the right to be the grumpy dwarf.

"Alright," her friend sighs, as if sensing that further pushing might not be advisable. "I'll call you tomorrow, make sure you and Ruby don't get into too much trouble."

"Yes, mom."

"Love you, Emma. See you on New Year’s!"

"Love you too," she mumbles with a reluctant smile as she plops into the armchair furthest from the door. "Have fun! Let David try anything Regina feeds you first."

"Ha. Ha. Bye, Emma!"

"Bye!"

//

She's been waiting for 15 minutes. 15 fucking minutes. And there's not a single soul in this stupid café except for her. How long does it take to serve your single customer? Apparently more than 15 fucking minutes.

Her shoe is trying off with the speed of a snail and her hair has now turned all fizzy from the wet should-be-snowflakes-but-are-just-slushy-rain and her stomach is now reminding her that she hasn't eaten anything and she is genuinely just really pissed off.

That's the state in which Emma walks up to the counter, trying really hard not to get sidetracked by the pastry display. Yell at someone first, eat later. And she finds the perfect target in the (admittedly attractive but she is too deep into her funk to acknowledge that) barista, who is just casually standing there and reading a freaking book.

Emma thinks that some part of her knows even as she reaches for his book that future!Emma will cringe and groan in mortification at this moment very soon. But she has been trying to get the last part of Ruby's gift all day, being pushed and shoved by human bodies left and right, she is tired and wet and hungry and lonely and something about the way that guy is nonchalantly leaning on the counter, head inclined to one side, steaming cup beside him, just rubs her the wrong way.

So that's how she ends up wrenching the book from his hand and dropping it on the wooden surface, millimeters from his drink.

"Hey, buddy," she gives him her bitchiest, tight-lipped smile. "Yes, hi. I was thinking maybe, finally, after I've been sitting over there for a solid 15 minutes with absolutely no one else around, you could grace me with your attention? And actually do your job?!"

The guy stares at her, his eyes wide and blue. Wow, really blue. Then he just lifts an eyebrow.

Emma grits her teeth and contemplates spending Christmas night in jail for battery.

"Hot chocolate," she says with a smile that is 99% menace and 1% tolerance. "With cinnamon."

It's only because she is trying to burn a whole in his back that she notices him operating with only one hand, the other, or rather his wrist, only occasionally helping him with some task. She tells herself she is not already feeling bad about her behaviour because she doesn't discriminate assholes based on how many limbs they have.

He bends down over her cocoa, his elbow twitching the tiniest bit as he does something and Emma narrows her eyes, wondering if Ruby or MM will be called into the morgue tomorrow to identify her poisoned body. The image is vividly morbid even for her.

And then he slides the cup towards her and it's this perfect snowflake on top of it and before she has even fully processed that another plate appears beside her cup, one with what looks like a caramel muffin on it.

"In case you failed to read the rather large sign behind me, lass, this is a self-service coffee shop and I, alas, have only one pair of eyes and can in no way see all the way into the corner where you've apparently spent an agonizing 15 minutes. My apologies for that. I wouldn't know anything about being stuck here for such an extended period of time."

Emma is well-aware of how much of a bitch she was just a couple of minutes ago and yet, perhaps because of the incredible intricacy of the snowflake on her cocoa, or because of how soft and well-worn his flannel looks, or because the damn place is so warm and Silent Night is currently playing, she doesn't expect his voice to be as cold as it is and she flinches a little as his stormy blue eyes let go of her and turn back to his book on the counter.

So maybe she didn't consider the fact that she isn't the only person in the world spending Christmas alone and at least she doesn't have to make others coffee in the meantime. And when he takes his book in his hand (and it's freaking Christmas Carol and ain't she a nice little twist on Scrooge) and sets it cover-down on the counter so he can leaf through the pages with one hand and find where he was, maybe she feels like the worst person in the world. Just maybe.

So Emma contemplates hiding back at the table where he apparently can't see her but then, for reasons yet unknown to her but which taste unsurprisingly like guilt, she pulls one of the chairs at the table right across from the sullen barista and then proceeds to take her cocoa and muffin from the bar to said table.

If he notices her change of location, he doesn't let on and sips his tea without looking up from his book. They sit in tense silence for another 15 minutes. Well, at least it's tense for Emma, the barista looks like he would hardly notice if she choked and died, let alone if she tried to leave without paying or something.  Emma concentrates on reminding herself that she's the one who made an absolute ass of herself and that he is under no obligation to talk to her, even if there's no one else in the damn place. She’s surprised how hard that is. She is surprised how much his cool tone and refusal to rise to her bait has gotten to her.

"So why are you even open on Christmas Day? Doesn't look like there's much traffic," she tries nonchalantly, only looking away from her phone for a second and glancing at him from the corner of her eye.

"We're open so that you can have your hot cocoa with cinnamon and yell in my face," he replies smoothly and turns a page.

Emma promptly rolls her eyes.

"OK, look, I'm sorry about that. I was hungry and soaked and shopping on Christmas Day doesn't put me in the best of moods."

"All perfect excuses to walk into an empty cafe and look for someone to pick a fight with."

"I. am. sorry. Which part of that is so hard to get?"

"The part where it's supposed to make me want to chat with you."

That's when Emma realizes she has turned in her chair to stare at him and he still hasn't even lifted his eyes (very blue eyes, her brain supplies unhelpfully) from his book. She catches the way he is toying with the edge of the page and the way he swipes his tongue over the corner of his mouth every few seconds and presses his lips into a thin line whenever they start twitching up at whatever part he's reading, and something rubs her the wrong way again. The fact that she fucked up so royally.

Emma hesitates for a moment but then decides her mouth can’t take her foot one more time today and shuts it closed. She breaks off a piece of her muffin and opens Instagram, likes a photo of David with Regina’s fiancé and his son, tries to avoid thoughts of when MM will have one of those as well and even less free time around the holidays. She has scrolled down a dozen photos she’s already seen when his voice startles her so she almost drops her phone.

“I wasn’t being sarcastic, lass.”

She looks at him , finds him leaning with both elbows on the counter, studying her seemingly for the first time with his head tilted to one side and his eyes slightly narrowed.

“Huh?”

Eloquent as always, Emma.

“About why the place is open,” he clarifies, less annoyed than she would’ve allowed him to be. “Finding myself with nothing else to do, I figured I might as well open, see if any other strays come in.”

His word choice catches her off guard and she is silent long enough that he goes back to his book with a shrug that is only half casual and the other half somewhat nervous, if she’s not completely off base.

Emma contemplates how she herself would like to be asked the question she is trying to formulate just right in her head.

“So Christmas day by yourself?” she cringes, should’ve taken another minute probably.

He doesn’t seem to mind though. At least she takes the fact that he looks up from Mr Dickens right away as a good sign. Then again, she did open with yelling at him so anything short of punching him in the face is an improvement.

“Indeed,” he replies, hesitates and then, much to Emma’s pleasure, continues. “I usually celebrate with my brother but the twat has gotten himself a fiancé as of recently and they are off visiting her family in Norway.”

“Ugh. The curse of the soon-to-be-married,” she groans, much to his obvious amusement.

“Pre-wedding jitters, love?”

She doesn’t miss the twinkle in his eye that tells her he knows she’s not talking about herself. She doesn’t miss the new endearment either. She is starting to think there’s very little about this guy she will, or wants to, miss.

“Yeah, right,” she snorts anyway. “Best friend’s getting married.”

“Ah, maid of honour’s nightmares then.”

“Now you’re getting it.”

“Aye. And all I have to do is write a bloody speech,” he smirks then. “Official duties-wise. Unofficially, I am, of course, in charge of entertaining all the single bridesmaids.”

He says it so pompously and accompanies with such an over-exaggerated eyebrow wiggle that Emma can’t help but laugh.

“I see.  Could find yourself a date?”

She feels her breath catch as the last word leaves her mouth and feels the acute need to slam her forehead against some surface. Preferably a hard one.

Subtle, Emma. Very subtle.

“Not yet,” he replies softly and smiles at her.

It’s the kind of smile that she thinks women in ages pass have gladly ruined marriages and reputations for.

She smiles back.

///

By 6pm Emma is more or less snowed in at the Jolly Café (a Peter Pan reference, _not_ a Christmas pun, Killian assures her).

The owner, one Killian Jones, that she hasn’t yelled at again in the last two hours, declares with a no-nonsense face that they have enough scones, muffins, cookies and tarts to last them about 3 days after which his brother and her friends will probably discover their over-sugarated bodies sometime after New Year’s.

Emma laughs and feels all kinds of funny about not being the only one with vividly morbid imagination. She also reaches to stuff the rest of the blueberry muffin in her mouth just to be in opposition but relents at Killian’s cries of indignation and stuffs half of it in his mouth instead.

By 8pm he has showed her how to make a chocolate and mint tart in the kitchen at the back. She is impressed. That the small café makes its own pastries, that its kitchen is sparkling clear, that Killian with one hand has the baking skills she probably wouldn’t acquire, if she had four.

He openly admits it took him ages to talk himself into stepping into a kitchen again. And then ages to (almost, he insists, not quite) get back to his old form.

Emma sneaks her arm around him and swipes her finger deep into the dough he’s mixing. The absolute outrage on his face delays any consumption of the pilfered goods with a solid minute in which Emma tries to stifle her giggles. Killian’s look is the definition of unamused until she finally puts her finger in her mouth and moans around it, declaring him in good form indeed.

By 10pm he has showed her “what good form really looks like”. Meaning, they have made out on any available surface in the small kitchen and some that Emma’s pretty sure would be classified as ‘unavailable’ but they made it work (where there’s a will and all that).

She has flour in her hair and all over her hands and he has chocolate on his cheek and two conspicuously white handprints on his backpockets. Emma is also the proud owner of a massive hickey. A freaking hickey. She hasn’t had one of those since she was 20. Ruby is never gonna let her live it down, if she sees it tomorrow.

By 12 pm they have cleaned up and stumbled their way through the snow outside and into a mutual admission that they want to start off the New Year right. Meaning, making out like teenagers on her friend’s couch.

He declares himself a gentleman and starts walking her to her place. He brushes the end of her fingertips five times in the space of two blocks so at the corner of the second one she grabs his hand and promptly intertwines their fingers.

She doesn’t let go until she sees a perfect amount of snow piled on a nearby bench and declares snow war without much preamble.

Killian claims he wins but the way his body feels hovering over hers, his warm breath in her hair and his hand at her waist as hers clutches his left forearm, Emma can’t see the losing side of things.

By the time the new year rolls around they both have dates for their respective upcoming weddings.

By the year after that they have yet another coming up.


	13. New Tales from the Old Forest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Character A’s little sibling/child wants to meet their favorite celebrity/writer/person for Christmas. Character B is said “Christmas present”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you're enjoying these little balls of holiday cheer. This one is definitely one of my favourites. Thanks to everyone for the amazing feedback!

At age 28 Emma Swan knows she hasn’t done many things right in her life but her son is definitely in the ‘knocked it out of the part’ category.

She is not sure how much credit she should be given though. Emma thinks she has raised Henry well, better than she expected, certainly better than she thought she would back when doubting whether she should do it at all. But there’s only so much positivity and imagination Emma could install into someone. And her kid has definitely surpassed her capacity for both.

And like the bright and joyful child that he is, Henry is absolutely obsessed with Christmas.

A part of Emma dreads every 1st of December just because she is sure one morning she’ll wake up and find herself on the North Pole. So far she simply finds herself in an apartment awash in the sounds of Christmas’s best hits. By the end of the first week of that long-awaited month she lives among dwarves of all materials and sizes, has gingerbread men and candy canes falling on her every time she reaches for the cinnamon and is constantly illuminated in some combination of red, green and gold.

How Henry developed such an affinity for the holiday with Emma’s not-quite-a-Grinch-but-definite-Scroogy-undertones attitude, she will never know. Mostly she likes to blame it on kindergarten and school teachers like Miss Blanchard and Miss French. If she didn’t know better, she’d think them related to Santa himself.

But Henry sweeps her along in his excitement like he always does and she has every bit of space on the surface of their fridge covered in drawings of the two of them building snowmen, hanging lights, reading by an imaginable fireplace (that she has promised herself to look for when their lease is up), decorating the Christmas tree, baking cookies and every other cliché in the holiday book.

All of that should explain why she is willing to do pretty much anything to make sure Henry has whatever his pure, believing, little heart wants for Christmas.

Of course, there are some things her son has without a doubt inherited from her. Like the ability to make Emma’s life as difficult as possible.

While every kid and their awesome aunts and uncles are obsessed with superheroes and everything to do with them, racing each other to buy comics, rubber hammers and plastic light-sabers, ordering Marvel DVDs and booking cinema tickets months in advance, Emma Swan is standing in front of a shelf with heavy, leather-bound, luxurious editions of _New Tales From the Old Forest_ and hoping beyond hope that Killian fucking Jones gets a new book out before Christmas starts really breathing down her neck.

///

“Mom! Mom, you won’t believe it!”

Henry climbs onto one of the bar stools at their kitchen counter with a little difficulty and Emma glances at him with a wary smile as she stirs her bolognese sauce.

“Don’t rock on the chair, Henry.”

“The chair is rocking itself. This is so big, mom!”

“Is it now?” Emma reaches for the oregano and listens carefully, not giving anything away until she has heard all the details.

Knowing her son, kind soul extraordinaire, she might accidentally adopt a crocodile, if she isn’t careful.

“Yes! I know what I want for Christmas!”

Now Emma’s ears really perk up and she turns down the heat on the stove so she can turn around, leaning one hip on the counter and giving the boy her full attention.

“Has Mr Jones given Cinderella a shotgun in this one?” she asks, quirking an eyebrow.

“Mom,” Henry groans in undisguised embarrassment, dropping his forehead on the counter like the overdramatic little diva he is. “Cinderella already got a shotgun in the sixth book. Plus, the new book doesn’t come out until March.”

“Then what’s the big news?”

“He’s coming here! He’s gonna be signing in New York on the 21st!”

Henry’s whole face is alight with joy and Emma feels both happiness at his enthusiasm and an uneasy sense of apprehension settle in her stomach.

She knows how much Henry loves these books, knows that Killian Jones is little less than a god in the eyes of her ten-year-old son. She also knows that idealizing someone never ends well. Unless they are never given the chance to disappoint you. So Emma was entirely too content with her son having a male role model that will never get to let him down, hurt him or disillusion him in any way.

It seems she was wrong.

“Alright. But, Henry, it might be a private event or-“

“It’s not! It’s in the bookstore right across from Granny’s and it’s totally free and you don’t even have to have a book but, of course, we do.”

“Of course.”

Having “a book” is a slight understatement. They have all six of Killian Jones’ books. In every one of the three editions they’ve come out in.

“Just let me look into it first, ok?”

“Mom,” Henry jumps from the chair and comes to stand before her so the puppy eyes are in full effect when he looks up at her. “This is _all_ I want for Christmas.”

It’s settled. If Killian Jones disappoints her kid, she’s going to kill him.

///

That night she sits down to investigate Killian Jones with all the skill and more distrust than she employs for the worst of her perps. To say she is in for a surprise is another understatement. Killian Jones… is not what Emma was expecting from an author of fairytales, even unconventional ones.

Born in Ireland. Orphaned at 8 (she pictures Henry’s puppy dog eyes earlier and something inside her squeezes in the most painful of ways). Tossed from group home to group home along with his brother and “returned” within days whenever someone tried to separate them (she pictures herself this time, remembers the feeling of floating without a compass or any land in sight, pulled and pushed by forces beyond your control). Separated from his brother regardless when the latter came of age. Got out of the system at 14 when said brother was finally declared fit to be his guardian. Worked (not entirely legally) at the docks for three years. Supposedly started working on the first book of _New Tales from the Old Forest_ during that time _._  Joined the Royal Navy along with his brother at 18. Lost brother in the Navy (she feels her stomach drop and takes a deeper gulp of hot chocolate, considers bringing out something stronger). Moved to America, Maine. Worked at the Storybrooke library for two years while working on _NTOF_. Published his first short story in a local newspaper at 22. Moved to New York at 23. Got engaged to one Milah Sawyer. Published his first _NTOF_ book in 2010 at 25. Lost fiancé and left hand to a drunk driver two weeks after becoming New York Time’s best-selling author. Dropped off the face off the earth (even Emma’s research skills turn out to have their limits). Resurfaced a year later in Michigan. Worked at the docks in Michigan for a year and a half, rumoured drinking problems. Shook the literary circles with the second and third _NTOF_ books in 2013 (critics described them as ‘two shades too dark’, Emma rolls her eyes, thinks ‘No shit, Sherlock’ and marvels at the fact that the guy is still writing fairytales). Regained best-selling status in under a month. Continued to publish a new book in the series every year, while maintaining a low social profile. Sponsored the opening of a new library in Storybrooke. Donates 20% of his profits to orphanages all over the world. Created a program for young sailors in his brother’s name. Did one world tour in 2015 and a dozen or so signings overall in America.

And now he is coming back to New York and has, completely without his knowledge, managed to keep Emma Swan awake until 4am on a week night and make her almost as excited as her son to see him in person.

Oh, yeah, he also looks drop dead gorgeous on all his photos and charming as hell in all the videos she finds of him at premieres and signings.

///

Emma takes the first book on her next stakeout and almost misses her guy while reading about the bandit ways of a Snow White who can give Robin Hood a run for his money.

She is 40 pages into the second one and thinking how badly she wants to punch Captain Hook in his smug pretty face when smoke starts rising from the oven. She calls out to Henry that they’re having Chinese tonight and makes sure to bookmark her page before she goes to put out the potential fire.

She tries to concentrate on the new episode of Modern Family for the first 10 minutes before cursing herself, setting her DVR and reaching for the book that holds the fate of the most devious version of Peter Pan she has ever seen.

“One time thing, my ass.”

When Saturday comes, she asks Henry what he wants to do and almost fistpumps the air when he says he’s invited to a sleepover. She doesn’t though. She loves her kid. But she does end up buried under three blankets, with damn gingerbread crumbs in her bed and a cup of hot cocoa on the nightstand, consuming Killian Jones’ fourth book in under 6 hours. Her eyes hate her.

It snows on Sunday. Henry binges the first four Harry Potter movies. Emma may or may not cry her way through the _New Tales from the Old Forest V._

 She closes the last book at 2am on a Wednesday and starts for Henry’s room before she realizes he has been asleep for hours. So she opens her laptop and googles all the details about Killian Jones’ signing in one week instead.

///

Henry is ready to start chipping away her patent “let me look into it” the very next morning. He shovels cereal in his mouth as quickly as possible so they don’t have to hurry for school and he can have plenty of time to plead his case. Then, as he is grabbing his backpack, he sees her put the first _New Tales from the Old Forest_ book in her own bag and he hesitates. He knows his mom, he knows she will never deny him something that will make him so happy. And _yet_. He also knows that sometimes pushing is not the way. He _knows_ how great NTOF is and how awesome Killian Jones must be and he thinks maybe _maybe_ she can enjoy it too. Maybe she doesn’t have to take him just because he begs it of her. Maybe she will want to go.

So Henry decides to play a long game. Well, alright, a week-long game. He can give her a week.

The next day he runs into the kitchen for Chinese when he hears the doorbell ring and doesn’t fail to spot the next book on the sofa, his mom’s frayed red bookmarker sticking out of it. He fails to hide his grin though.

On Friday she comes into his room to tell him it’s time for bed half an hour after it was time for bed and he can see the red mark on her nose from where she has been pushing her reading glasses up. She presses a kiss to his forehead and tells him he’s growing up so fast.

She narrates all her usual warnings and instructions as she’s driving him to Grace’s sleepover party but somewhere in between them her thoughts seem to drift off and she asks if they have any hot cocoa left. As if they ever run out.

Jefferson drops him off on Sunday and he watches his mom flush slightly at being found in her pajamas and smile tiredly in thanks before she guides him towards the kitchen, asking if he had any breakfast as she puts on the coffee pot, yawns and rubs at her eyes.

When he comes into the kitchen for breakfast on Thursday she pushes a plate of pancakes towards him, leans her elbows on the table, winks at him conspiratorially and asks if he thinks Miss Blanchard will mind, if he skips the last class next Wednesday so they can get in line at _Enchanted Books_ earlier.

He fistpumps the air and drags her into a hug that puts her hair in the blueberry jam but she doesn’t seem to mind.

///

Killian smiles at the little boy before him and leans as far down as the big wooden desk will allow him.

“And what’s your name, lad?”

The kid smiles so wide Killian thinks his dimples will never let up after this.

“Roland!”

“And do you have a favourite character, Roland?” Killian inquires with a smile and makes sure to keep eye contact with the boy, while he twists his usual inscription a bit to make it more personal.

“Uh-ha. Robin!”

“Robin Hood. The noble thief. Good choice, if somewhat naughty. Don’t worry, I won’t tell Santa,” he whispers and winks at the man standing behind the boy.

“Just like daddy!”

Killian gives the “daddy” an inquisitive, amused look at that.

“He means our names, not… professional choices,” the man, Robin apparently, elaborates with a chuckle.

Killian laughs and waves at him to give him the other book they’ve brought as well. Regina, usually quick to scold him for asking more than one question and signing more than one book per fan, is uncharacteristically, suspiciously, quiet on his left and he intends to take full advantage of it.

Glancing at his manager, Killian finds her not distracted and tapping away on her phone, as he expected, but apparently won over by the twin set of dimples before him.

Killian’s faith in magic and True Love and happy endings is far from what it used to be when he first moved to the States but one can’t exactly write fairytales for a living, albeit modern ones, and not preserve some spark of hope and belief in his heart. So with a devious smirk at his manager and a speedily constructed plan, he turns to Robin with a serious, 99% professional expression. A percent of the deviousness he finds himself unable to purge. He gives the man’s fingers a quick scan and proceeds.

“Speaking of professional matters, we are currently casting the characters for the first movie. I believe we are having some trouble finding a Pinocchio.”

Regina makes some sort of choked sound behind him and it is the most ungraceful thing he has ever heard from her. Which cracks his professional façade just a tad. Deviousness at 10% now.

“I know child acting is not to all parents’ taste but my manager could give you her number and perhaps we could send you the audition details, if you’re interested.”

He watches Robin’s eyes widen in surprise and then shift to Regina and then… well, Killian might be a bit rusty in the romantic department but he is sure that a stare fest like that is one for the ages. So he turns his attention back to little Ronald who has been rummaging through his backpack, oblivious to Killian’s scheming, and is now shoving a drawing of what appears to be a Robin Hood with a bow twice his size in his face.

“Why, that’s quite impressive, lad. Would you like me to sign it?”

The boy shakes his head, curls flying everywhere and dimples flashing again and damn, Killian doesn’t know about Regina but he sure has been won over twice by now.

“For you.”

“It’s for me?”

The eager nod and the thought of having something to hang on his fridge thugs on his heart strings and he finds himself clearing his throat before speaking again.

“Then I believe you should sign it for me.”

Roland looks beyond thrilled to take over as the star and Killian hands him his golden pen all too eagerly, instructing him to keep his wild scribble of a signature to the right corner of his drawing.

“Why, thank you,” he grins and takes back the pen when it looks like Roland will by quite willing to sign the desk as well. “I think your dad will be happy to get you a hot chocolate or something equally delicious now.”

He turns to look at the father in question who has moved closer to Regina so they can awkwardly exchange numbers with the pretext of formal arrangements that sound more fictitious than anything he’s ever written.

“Oh, yes, of course! Come, Roland.”

Killian watches the boy bounce over the few feet to his father and grin up at Regina with all the cuteness that melted his own heart. His manager proves just as helpless to his charms and kneels down in her five-inch heels to shake his little hand.

Killian turns with a chuckle to thank the patient person that waited for that whole fiasco to play itself out without a word or throat clearing of complaint.

“That was awesome!”

The boy, about twice Roland’s age, beams up at him as if he just moved a mountain and didn’t simply sign a couple of books and play questionably successful match-maker. But Killian is delighted to encounter another enthusiastic kid so he smiles right back, wide and genuine. Until his eye catches the hand on the boy’s shoulder and moves up a leather clad arm to take in one of the single most stunning women he has ever had the good fortune of seeing.

He feels his jaw slack just a little bit, no doubt turning his smile a shade idiotic, but finds himself unable to do much about it when confronted with the brown-haired ball of energy and the guardian angel of a woman behind him, who seems to be doing her damnest to suppress a grin and the amused twinkle in her eye and failing rather spectacularly.

“That _was_ quite the match-making,” she teases and he swears his heart stutters for the first time in almost a decade.

///

On the 20th it takes Emma over an hour to put Henry to bed. Giving three solid tries to convincing him that Mr Jones won’t be able to sign more than one (maaaybe two, if Emma pretends to be a fan herself, _pretends_ , right) book and then reassuring him twice that she put all three of his favourite editions in a tote bag on the stand by the door, and then finally letting him out of bed to go check himself.

She spends a good fifteen minutes reassuring him that Killian won’t cancel the event and silently swears to every god she doesn’t believe in that she will hunt the man down and drag him in front of her son with a Santa hat and bells on top, if he doesn’t show up.

But her research shows that Killian Jones has yet to bail on any commitment in the last three years and the thought of him in a Santa hat and bells on top _and nothing else_ jumps unbidden in Emma’s mind and has nothing to do with dragging him into her apartment for the benefit of her son.

The day itself Henry spends on cloud nine. Emma has trouble convincing him to at least have a poptart and then she has even more trouble convincing him that queuing at the bookstore from the moment it opens isn’t more important than going to school.

He is waiting for her at the school steps and she has barely killed the engine when he is running towards the yellow bug with a grin the size of which she worries might do permanent damage to his face.

Once at the bookstore, he is so excited he is almost trembling and Emma warns him to cool the jacks or she’ll have to take him to the doctor instead of Killian Jones. Henry looks so horrified at the mere suggestion that she raises her hands in indisputable surrender.

The atmosphere in the store is magical, pun intended. She has to give it to this guy, he seems to have won over everyone from two-year-olds, that by the looks of their cosplaying parents are being raised with his books, to Granny Lucas herself, who has apparently shut her diner for the day and is making coffee and hot chocolate at a stand just inside the store.

Emma gets a cup but opts out of purchasing one for Henry. With the way the kid’s hands are shaking, he’ll spill it all over his favourite editions and really get himself a heart-attack.

When they draw near to the centre of the second floor where a neat circle has been cleared out and a desk set up for Mr Jones, Emma begins to catch glimpses of dark hair and a dark blue sleeve. And if she goes on her tiptoes a bit, well, that’s her own damn business and anyway she is sure she saw a redhead with a t-shirt that read “Killian Jones owns this princess’s heart (and everything else)” so whatever.

They are five people away when she gets a good view of him.

Yup, just as attractive in real life. Perhaps even a little bit more so. What with the quick, purposeful way he signs the books in his hand and the way he tilts his head to the side, as if he’s really listening to everyone that comes before him, and the way he licks his lips every few seconds.

He tenses a bit when an overly demanding woman with a hairdo that Emma thinks must be inspired by Cruella DeVil, leans over and wraps her arm around his neck to take a selfie. Emma watches him drop his left arm in his lap from where it was resting on the desk and sketch a polite smile as his manager steps in to ask the overzealous fan to hurry up.

Emma makes a note to keep an eye on the efficient brunette in the killer heels because Henry will certainly be one of those people that need prompting to leave Killian Jones‘s side.

The little boy in front of them, accompanied by his father, seems almost as excited as Henry and her son, wonderful kid that he is, patiently listens to him babble about his favourite character and answers all his questions about one of the multiple alternative universes in the books.

Then Roland steps up and hefts his book on Mr Jones’s desk and Emma watches the action unfurl before her.

Emma has no small amount of trouble reconciling what she knows about Killian Jones with the patiently engaging and sweetly mischievous man a few feet from her. She can almost feel the grudging respect for his talent and rise from the ashes stretch and transform itself into passionate admiration for the unyieldingly kind and wonderful human he appears to be.

He hasn’t even said a word to them yet and she is already beyond grateful that her son gets to meet this man.

///

Henry barely restrains himself as he watches Roland get to talk to Killian and he facepalms internally over not thinking to bring him one of his drawings as well. Then he quickly reassures himself that he is too grown up for that.

When he sees the boy move over and shake hands with the woman that seems to work for Killian, he can’t contain himself any longer.

“That was awesome!”

Killian Jones looks at him and smiles widely. Then he looks up at his mom and his face reminds Henry of that time Miss Blanchard took them to the animal shelter and the guy at the counter looked up to greet her. He finds it interesting how two completely different faces can wear almost identical expressions.

“That _was_ quite the match-making,” his mom reaffirms.

“I try,” Killian seems to pick up his smile again. “True Love can be found in the most unlikely of places and all that.”

Killian purses his lips as if he is about to say something more but shakes his head instead and looks back at him, his smile back to its normal, welcoming, put-together shape.

“Hello, lad. What’s your name?”

“Hey, I…”

Oh. _Oh._

Henry tries swallowing a couple of times. Opens his mouth again but nothing comes out.

_Oh._

Killian Jones is waiting to hear his name and he can’t make words come out of his mouth.

“Henry?”

His mom’s voice sounds above him, confused and a touch concerned. He is about to try saying something to her at least, when Killian gets up and comes around to sit on the ground, leaning his back against the desk he was just sitting at, so that Henry has to look down at him now.

“No worries, my boy. I’m not partial to Rumpelstiltskin’s tricks, won’t use your name for anything nefarious,” he grins and extends his hand. “I’m Killian.”

 _No kidding._ Henry wants to say but feels himself smile instead. He swallows one more time and finally manages to convince his vocal cords to work.

“I’m Henry.”

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Henry,” Killian says with a satisfied grin. “I take it you like my books?”

He hears him mom snort above them put pays her no mind. _He is talking to Killian Jones._

“Yeah. They… they are pretty great.”

That was lame but Killian’s grin grows and- _Killian Jones shook his hand._

“Do you have a favourite?”

_He is talking to Killian Jones._

///

She can say she’s not charmed by his match-making ways but why lie to herself?

She can say his eyes are not the most fascinating and _magical_ blue.

She can say her heart doesn’t tremble when Henry’s voice catches and he stares at his idol like a deer caught in the headlights.

She can say that same heart doesn’t do three subsequent summersaults when Killian Jones sits down at her son’s feet and coaxes his name out with the greatest care and patience.

She can say she doesn’t practically glow with happiness when Henry suddenly rushes into a lengthy explanation of why the first, third and fifth books are his favourite.

She can say Killian doesn’t glow almost as brightly when her son explains how much he wants to become a writer _just like him_ and how excited he is for the first movie even though _it can’t possibly be as good as the book._

She can say Killian makes her picture Henry with a father figure in his life, just a general father figure, not this precise man, who is looking at her kid as if every word out of his mouth is the gospel truth.

But why lie to herself?

///

Killian ignores the first throat clearing and curses silently. He thought Roland’s dimples will buy him more time. Then again, he has been conversing with Henry for a rather long time and has been genuinely engrossed in the talk, even if he keeps sneaking glances at the gorgeous mother, smiling tentatively at the two of them.

The second throat clearing catches said mother’s attention and he watches her glance apologetically yet somewhat defiantly at Regina. He backs her up with a completely unapologetic scowl at his manager.

“Well, lad, did you bring any of those favourites for me to sign?”

“Oh, right. Sorry!”

It’s Henry’s mom that replies as she bends her head to pull the heavy books (his favourite editions) from her tote bag, blonde curls falling in her face. He can’t help but smile at the way she blows at them in a futile attempt to remove them from her line of sight.

“Which one, kid?” she says firmly, giving her boy a look that seems to be both warning and beseeching.

He is all too willing to come to her aid.

“Nonsense. You lugged those things here, the least I can do is sign all of them.”

He catches a glimpse of Henry’s triumphant look and gives him a pseudo-glare for sassing his mother. For her part, the blonde drops down to her knee, joining him on the soft green carpet and leaving Henry towering over the both of them.

“Sorry to take so much of your time,” she says following another, louder, throat clearing from Regina.

“You can make amends to my manager, love, but I’m having the time of my life.”

She quirks a disbelieving eyebrow at that and he gives her his most winning and sincere smile. Then he grabs the first book and takes his sweet time writing an inscription for Henry, encouraging him in his writing pursuits. He’s signing his name when he feels a pang somewhere in the vicinity of his chest at the thought of not seeing those pursuits play out. Killian furrows his eyebrows and thinks he can ask their last name and goggle the kid in a few years. It doesn’t quite satisfy him but it will have to do.

He draws a small ship on the next book before signing it but then hesitates when he puts the third one on his knee and holds in down with his stump. He bites his lip and glances up to find two emerald eyes staring back at him.

“Perhaps I can make this one out to you? Mrs…”

He feels a hopeless, unreasonable but thrilling little spark shoot through him as he waits for her answer.

///

Emma swears they have been sitting there, monopolizing Killian’s time for a solid 5 minutes now, but every time she even thinks about urging Henry to go, some part of her slaps her upside the head and tells her to enjoy the numbered moments she gets to spend in Killian Jones’s presence. His very charming, disarming and completely enchanting presence.

So she listens to herself and watches the way his lashes lower as he bends his head to draw an intricate (absolute adorable who-the-hell-does-that, what-even-is-this-man) little ship on Henry’s book. She listens to Henry’s excited intake and feels herself sigh and dig her knee deeper into the carpet beneath her. She looks at Killian’s broad shoulders and lets her eyes travel down his arm to where his shirt sleeve is tucked around his stump, obviously meant to cover it up. The same part that slapped her over the head seconds ago, wants to tug on his arm and tell him anything that has shaped him into the wonderfully understanding and kind-hearted man he is should not be hidden away. She looks at the strands of hair falling over his forehead and bails her hand into a fist so she doesn’t reach out and push them back.

And then she is looking into his blue eyes and-

“Perhaps I can make this one out to you? Mrs…”

She doesn’t consider the possibility that he might be inquiring after more than her name like she usually would. She is too busy pretending she wasn’t blatantly staring at him. But some blessed part of her (yeah, it’s probably the slap-happy part) has the good sense to correct him anyway.

“Swan. Miss Swan. Emma Swan.”

She blushes and concentrates all her efforts on not swearing at herself.

“Swan.”

He seems to consider it and deem it extremely satisfactory. Then he bends over the book. Once he is done, she expects him to get up and go back behind his desk but instead he reaches back for the second one he signed and adds something to it. Then he hands it back to Henry and finally gets to his feet. Emma is about to do the same when he offers her his hand.

She takes it and tells herself not to use any bodice-ripper clichés. Even if just in her head.

It’s kinda hard though. Especially when he brushes his lips over her knuckles after tugging her to her feet.

“It was an absolute pleasure to meet you, Henry,” he says with a megawatt smile when he turns to her kid and bends down a little to look him in the eyes and stage-whisper. “I look forward to coming to you for an autograph one day.”

He winks at the boy, straightens and gives her one last long look that Emma can’t quite read but which bears an inexplicable amount of apprehension and anticipation.

When they finally move away, books hugged to both their chests, his manager looks beyond relieved to see them go and Killian sees off Emma’s poorly veiled regret with a bewilderingly hopeful glance.

They are almost to the door when Emma comes to a halt. Henry gives an excited cheer behind her.

“Mom! Look! He drew a swan beside the ship.”

She pays him no mind. She is too busy staring at the phone number in the book in her own hands.


	14. Thud She Went

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Character A can’t travel to see their family on Christmas, so they invite their grumpy loner neighbor Character B.

“Still. I’m sorry I won’t make it on time.”

“Killian, stop apologizing. I’m pretty sure you didn’t create a snowstorm in order to avoid coming home for Christmas.”

“No, but your wife might have. Remember when we didn’t listen to her last year and ended up snowed in that bloody cabin for two days with nothing but four crackers and a year’s worth of tea between us?”

“Please, Elsa is more likely to snow you in here so you can’t leave.”

Killian hums, trying to turn his frown upside down with little success.

Bloody buggering fuck. He hasn’t seen his brother and sister-in-law in over half a year. He has seen his nephew exactly once and he’s almost a year old. And he is stuck in New York City for the holidays. Alone.

Happy bloody Christmas.

He is about to tell Liam to go enjoy his weekend and stop worrying about him when movement outside catches his eye. The snow has let up for the first time in what feels like three days of blinding and aggressive snowflakes attacking anyone who dared peak outside.  Which is why the human form, struggling to make its way through the fields of whiteness, draws his attention. He shakes his head and is just about to look away when said form suddenly disappears from view. Killian jumps to his feet and rushes to the window.

“Killian?”

He hears his brother’s voice but his eyes are busy scanning the darkening world before his apartment building. Then he sees a blonde head peak up and cringes at the red coat that wavers into view as the poor soul tries to regain her balance.

Ah. Emma Swan.

Killian doesn’t bother to hide his cringe. When he thinks of Emma Swan, one word comes unbidden to his mind. Grumpy. Ethereally gorgeous follows closely behind but never quite manages to take over.

The woman across the hall is hardly willing to exchange more than two sentences of small talk on a good day, he doesn’t even want to imagine what she will be like after having to make her way through the Winter HorrorLand outside and falling on her admittedly delectable arse not a hundred feet from the building’s entrance.

“Killian?”

It’s Elsa’s voice calling for him this time and he hears Liam’s reply before he can respond himself.

“I’m telling you we shouldn’t leave him unobserved for such long stretches of time. He is starting to lose it.”

Killian is about to go back to his laptop and give his brother a piece of his all-there-thank-you-very-much mind when he sees Swan finally manage to wrestle free whatever she has been fighting the snow for. It looks suspiciously like a pizza box.

A cold, wet and bruised Emma Swan that has just lost her dinner to the wonders of the winter season. Killian gives a solid thought to pushing his couch in front of the door. Just in case. Or perhaps he should just start evacuating the building? He shakes his head and makes his way back to his desk.

Only to find his brother with his wife in his lap and her tongue in his mouth, obviously having completely forgotten that he is broadcasting himself across the ocean.

“Oh, bloody hell! Can you keep away from each other for five seconds?”

“Killian,” Elsa gives him a devious smile as she pulls away from his brother’s face. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say _you_ are keeping away from us on purpose?”

“I might have, if you’d reminded me sooner that half of my holidays with you are spend watching you hover just on the edge of giving me more nephews to spoil,” he grumbles.

“Take that back!” Elsa gives him one of her patent (and undeniably effective) my-word-is-law stares. “It’s a niece next.”

“Whatever the queen wishes, I’m sure,” he says with an eyerolll.

“Anyway, I had to console your brother. You abandoned him without a word. What was so fascinating anyway?”

“The sight of my neighbour dropping her dinner and her whole person in 5 feet of snow.”

“Is she alright?” Liam frowns at his breezy tone.

“As much as she ever is. I swear that woman is mad at the whole world 24/7. And that’s when her food is not served with a side of ice.”

“And you’re what? Regaling us with a tale of her troubles? Where are your manners, little brother?”

“Young-“

“Go help the poor girl!”

“I’m sure she’s already inside and lighting her fireplace with nothing but the power of her glare.”

The words are barely out of his mouth when he hears a solid thud outside his door.

He’ll ignore it but-

_Thud._

She might be taking an axe to the walls or something.

Killian sighs. The combined forces of the sounds outside and his brother and sister-in-law’s judging looks pressuring him into being a decent human.

Being a decent human is so overrated. He hates falling into its trap.

_Thud._

“Fine. I’m gonna go see, if she is alright. You’re successfully gotten rid of me,” he says with a glare at the screen.

“Oh, please. We’re gonna spend all day trying to smuggle you out of that country,” says Elsa with a determined furrow of her perfect eyebrows.

“Good luck outsmarting the biggest snowstorm in the last 30 years or whatever this is, love,” grumbles Killian but smiles at her anyway as he gets up.

“Be nice, brother!”

“I’m always bloody nice.”

He hangs up before he can see Liam’s scoff but hears it anyway.

_Thud._

Right.

Killian opens his front door to the sight of Emma Swan sitting on the ground in front of her apartment, knees drawn up, head leaned back on the door, eyes squeezed tightly shut, jaw locked. He frowns. What was the-

Her head meets the door with the predictable-

_thud._

Yeah, that makes sense.

“I prefer to do that forehead-first. Onto a bar,” he tries cheekily.

Swan startles, opening her eyes and straightening up as she hears and subsequently sees him in front of her.

Her jean-clad knees are soaked through, her beanie is clutched in her hand and her hair is in complete disarray, the ends darker and wet. The mangled pizza box is lying beside her on the floor. A testament to the world’s love of kicking people when they’re down, if there ever was one.

“Yeah, well, some of us have to satisfy ourselves with what’s on hand,” she mutters darkly before letting her head fall against the hard wooden surface behind her once again.

_Thud._

Killian channels every bit of willpower he possesses into swallowing the innuendo that’s on the tip of his tongue. He doubts it will have any pleasant consequences.

“Right. And may I inquire after-“ he waves his hand in the general direction of her semi-soaked person as she looks at him.

Emma just sighs heavily and after a solid ten seconds pass Killian considers going back inside and leaving the woman to relish in her misery.

“I fell and must have dropped my keys outside.”

“Spare?” he asks even though the answer is obvious.

“Don’t believe in leaving keys for people who want to rob me blind under the mat, Jones. They can at least go to the trouble of picking the lock.”

He snorts at her dry humour. Surprised by it as much as by the fact that she bothered to remember his name.

“And how’s that working out for you, love?”

She goes to the effort of straightening her neck again just so she can glare at him full on. His grin is everything but apologetic.

“Come on then,” he says with a rueful smile and a wave towards the warmth of his apartment.

He doesn’t know how she feels in her damp clothes on the dirty floor but he is already curling in his toes at the chill in the hallway.

“Huh?” she sends him a look that’s equal parts disbelief and suspicion.

He feels very justified in rolling his eyes at her.

“Swan, it’s pitch black outside, it’s freezing and slippery, as you should know better than me-”

Her confusion morphs into irritation with a truly impressive speed.

“And while my menu currently features only eggs and bacon and cereal, I think it beats your Rudolph-trodden pizza,” he grins cheekily before delivering his winning argument. “Also I have alcohol.”

_Thud._

She groans. Then gets up.

Emma has barely stepped inside when she gives him a judging look.

“Bacon and eggs and cereal for dinner? What are you? Five?”

What had he gotten himself into?

“Says the fifteen-year-old with the pizza box.”

He thinks the way she sticks her tongue at him only proves his point.

“Shall we start with a drink then?” he asks as he moves into the kitchen, leaving her to get rid of her coat and boots in the corridor.

“If you think you’re getting me drunk-“

“Swan,” it’s a groan more than a word. “You make it really hard for people to be nice to you, you know that?”

“In my experience they sure don’t try really hard,” she mutters even as she makes her way into the living room, her toes leaving damp imprints on his hardwood floor.

Killian abandons the bottle of rum on the counter and quickly ducks into his bedroom, returning with a pair of thick socks. She gives them that same suspicious look that prompts the same eyeroll from him. When she finally reaches for them, he leans down slightly.

“Well, this is me trying. Care to join me?”

He watches little flashes of her internal conflict play in her eyes before she swallows and pulls the stupid socks out of his hand.

“Thanks,” is all he gets but he counts it as a win and returns to the kitchen to prepare their drinks.

“Rum, whisky or beer?”

“Whatever you’re having is fine,” she says somewhat distractedly and he looks up to see her flipping through his book and feels his ears burn.

She looks up, eyebrow raised as high on her forehead as it will go and the most teasing smile he has ever seen on Emma Swan’s lips. Jane Austen’s _Emma_ in her hands.

It certainly wasn’t bloody intentional. And no, Killian doesn’t want to hear anything about subconscious desires and all that mumbo-jumbo. Thank you very much. He just appreciates a wide variety of British literature.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Swan.”

“What, me?” she actually flutters her eyelashes at him. “Not at all. I simply didn’t know you enjoyed the fine works of Miss Austen.”

“Many things you don’t know about me, love.”

She hums in agreement even if the teasing doesn’t completely leave her eyes. She does lower them back to the book though, much to the relief of the spot behind his ear.

Killian shakes his head, telling himself he doesn’t enjoy this more light-hearted version of Emma Swan any more than he does the grumpy one. He secures his glass of rum in the crook of his left elbow and then grabs hers in his right hand before he slowly makes his way to the couch.

Emma looks up when he has almost reached her and jumps to her feet.

“Shit! Sorry,” she reaches for the glass nestled between his arm and ribs, her cold fingers brushing his arm through his henley. “I totally forgot-“

“No worries, love,” he says with a tight smile. “I generally prefer it that way.”

“How-“

He watches her quickly talk herself out of the question and decides against offering the story behind his missing hand. They were still on drink #1 and that was at least drink #4 material.

“What are you doing here anyway?” she goes for instead. “Aren’t you usually back in Ireland around the holidays?”

Killian is once again startled by the information about him that Emma Swan seems to have stored away.

“Only when there’s a plane willing to fly me there, I’m afraid.”

“Right.”

“And your holiday plans?” he takes a sip of his drink and gets up to retrieve his laptop with the idea of talking her into a Christmas movie.

“Pretty much what you saw a few minutes ago only on the other side of the door,” she says with a shrug.

He laughs and gives her a ‘no, seriously’ look and receives a ‘serious as a heart attack’ one back.

“Well, I supposed that means you won’t judge my lack of festivity too harshly. I wasn’t planning on sticking around.”

Emma looks around his apartment. There are a few porcelain sleighs and glass snowballs here and there and a rather pathetic-looking tree in the corner but he’s quite proud of his twinkling lights work. They have always been his favourite decoration and his windows can definitely testify to that.

“This isn’t festive?” Emma asks, the incredulity in her voice almost a physical presence, scouring the room and pointing every twinkling bit to him.

“You should meet my sister-in-law.”

“Doesn’t sound like we’ll mix well.”

“On the contrary, you have very much the same ‘this is not how the world should look, fix it or so help me’ attitude,” he says, nodding to himself and noting the twitch in the corner of her mouth. “Only she usually stares down what you’ll probably _glare_ at.”

“I don’t glare that much,” she says, _glaring._

Killian gives her a pointed look.

“I only glare when given a reason to,” she huffs.

“I hardly think taking the lift glare-worthy.”

“I don’t glare _at_ you. I glare at the world. You’re just in it,” Emma explains, sounding for all the glare-worthy world like she’s presenting very reasonable arguments. “I don’t find your face in particular glare-worthy.”

Killian gives an affronted gasp just to see where it will take him.

“No, I mean, I don’t find it _deserving_ of a glare,” she groans at the English language’s obvious inability to accommodate her meaning. “Your face doesn’t make me glare, ok?”

She huffs and brings her feet up wrapping her arms around her knees again.

“I see. And what else do you think about my face, Emma Swan?” he says with an unabashed smirk.

“I think it might familiarize itself with my fist, if you keep that up,” she says.

_Glaring._

He hums and leans back, choosing to abandon that particular path for the time being in favour of enumerating the multiple advantages of binging the Home Alone trilogy.

“It’s not a trilo-“

“Swan,” he says with a clear warning in his voice. “You have to choose between remaining in my home and mentioning those monstrosities ever again.”

She puts some decent effort into turning her laugh into a cough so he lets it slide.

Same as he lets her feet slide under his thighs during the first movie when she complains of still being too damn cold.

Same as she lets his arm slide behind her shoulders.

Same as he lets them slide from rum to tea and hot cocoa and thus make their way to drink #4 at which she gets to unlock his tragic backstory.

Same as he lets her slide her hand over his stump during said story while Macaulay Culkin is running around New York City.

Same as she lets some could-be-a-villains-making details about herself slide from behind her defenses.

Same as he lets her lips slide over his by the time Kevin has taken the from of Alex Linz.

Same as she lets him slide a plane ticket across her counter three days later.

He thinks the combined forces of her and Elsa in the same room can make any storm retreat with the sincerest of apologies.


	15. Make It Shine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Character A and Character B compete in Christmas house decoration.

There are two things Emma knows about Killian Jones: he is infuriatingly charismatic to the point that even she has trouble forcing out eyerolls instead of smiles at his innuendoes and he has won the unspoken ‘best Christmas decorations’ contest between them for the past two years.

No, wait, she can explain. Emma is not one of those Christmas-obsessed freaks. What she is, however, is incapable of turning down a challenge.

So take the fact that she moves in October, add in her tendency to keep to herself and you get why the beginning of December sees what’s probably her third interaction with Killian Jones, waving to each other across the street, excluded. He doesn’t go so far as to make fun of her sloppily hung Christmas lights but he definitely looks unimpressed. Which is a foolproof way to make Emma’s shackles rise. So when Killian Jones tells her not to sweat it, that she can’t compete with his decorating skills anyway, she simply sees no other option but to prove him wrong.

Proving him wrong involves a cringe-worthy amount of money, an even larger amount of her time and balancing on ladders in what is undoubtedly ill-advised pretzel-shapes. And it doesn’t bloody work. His house is a masterpiece with which her amateur ass cannot even hope to compete. And yet, his impressed look, the genuine, dare she say – proud, smile on his face and the goofy thumbs up he gives her, when she lights up her home, is not exactly nothing.

But it is not, not even a little bit, why she plunges headfirst into the decorating madness again the following year. No, that has everything to do with her need to kick his ass and nothing to do with her wanting to impress him with twinkling lights and strategically-placed, oversized dwarves. That year she adds hours upon hours on Pintrest to her resources. It’s an admirable effort.

He erects a pirate ship decked in lights and garlands in his front yard and a pirate Santa that she swears he must have had custom made. Emma Swan knows when she has been beaten.

But this is her year. She has been planning and buying and planning and buying and even sketching for the last month. She unintentionally had a freaking no-shave November simply because every minute of her free time went into preparations for the 4thof December. That first year Jones’s decorations were up on the 1st and by the 4th she managed to improve on her pitiful initial attempts at festivity. So by some unspoken agreement she lit up her house on the 4th again the following year, only a little defeated after having already stared at the Pirates of the North Pole masterpiece in his yard for three days.

But this won’t be a repeat performance of any of those. No matter what Jones pulls out of his sleeve on the 1st, she knows she can beat it.

///

When the 28th rolls around and there’s still nothing to suggest he’s preparing to welcome the holidays in his typical outlandish fashion, she frowns in suspicion. He is admittedly pretty good at putting in most of the work the night of the 30th but she got an idea of how massive his project for last year was days before a single light was actually lit. If he is thinking of catching her off guard, he’s got another thing coming.

29th of December. 10:30 pm. Emma stands by the window with a cup of hot cocoa, making sure the strings of lights are lined perfectly and glancing at Killian Jones’s dark, normal-as-can-be house only, oh, every five seconds. She doesn’t know what he is up to but it’s starting to rub her the wrong way.

By the 30th she is actually starting to worry. The thought of the house across the road not lighting up like her True North the next night is just not an option.

Emma drives down the street at 7pm on the 1st of December and realizes she is holding her breath when her chest starts to burn a little bit. She turns the corner and is greeted with the sight of Killian Jones’s home. Decorated alright but in such a modest, if not unoriginal way, that she almost slams down on the breaks from sheer shock.

There are beaming stars formed from twinkling lights only on the windows on the first floor and his driveway has been transformed into what looks like a runway for Santa’s sleigh, two life-sized ceramic dwarves, sitting on the pavement right in front, obviously drunk and merry as all hell. And that’s about it.

For one horrible second she thinks he must have moved. While the decorations have a touch of Killian’s style, she cannot possibly imagine his restraining himself to that. He doesn’t even have another drunk dwarf on the roof. He had a freaking Peter Pan in red tights and a Santa hat up there last year.

He must have moved. It’s the only explanation. And yet. Killian leaving without a word is probably the only thing more unthinkable than him holding out on the Christmas glitz and glam. It’s not like they’re best friends or anything. But they exchange the occasional a-bit-too-long-and-too-flirty-to-be-small-talk conversation, leaning against one of their post boxes, they’ve house sat for each other several times and even had a _Harry Potter_ marathon weekend before going to see _Fantastic Beasts and Where To Find Them_ a few weeks ago. To be completely honest, she was expecting to see more of Killian Jones in the future, not less.

Emma tries to think of when she last saw Killian and is sure that she talked to him in the beginning of the previous week before he was to go for a ski weekend with his brother and sister-in-law. And he is obviously back. Only replaced with a pod person, judging by his undecorated upper floor.

Emma kills the bug once she has impatiently maneuvered it into her driveway and wastes no time in stalking towards Killian Jones’s house. If her banging on his door has a rather aggressive beat to it, she doesn’t particularly mind.

He opens after the fifth bang and Emma feels her eyes widen and her mouth form an inadequate little ‘o’.

Killian Jones looks like he had a fight with a bear while in the mountains. His forehead is all purple and swollen on the left side, there’s a nasty gash, running from his cheekbone almost all the way to his chin and his left hand is in a cast.

“What the hell happened to you?”

She reaches for him without thinking, her hand grabbing a hold of his right arm and tugging him a bit closer. Or more like pulling herself closer. She angles her head to the side to get a better look at his face, a deep furrow between her brows.

“Took a little tumble down a little slope, if memory serves me right. Though it is all a bit blurry, to be honest.”

She runs her gaze over the whole of him, noting the fact that he seems to be favoring his left leg a bit as well.

“So I’m afraid I’m in no shape to pose much of a challenge in the decorations department this year,” he says with a rueful smile, obviously having guessed why she knocked on his door on this particular night.

But Emma just shakes her head to dismiss the whole topic. He broke his fucking bones, she doesn’t give a damn about some stupid baubles and stars. And she is about to tell him just that when he raises a teasing eyebrow at her.

“But my kitchen is fully stocked with all the necessary ingredients for mulled wine and enough food for all of Santa’s helpers, thanks to my sister-in-law, so if you’d like to join me for a glass…”

If she was at all inclined to say ‘no’, his tentative yet hopeful smile alone would’ve convinced her to step inside. As it is, she doesn’t need much convincing at all.

Killian, however, turns out to need plenty of convincing and some almost-yelling to sit his bruised ass down and instruct her how to prepare the damned wine.

///

The next morning Emma Swan decides that she may not care about the dumb decorations once the competitive element (read: the Killian element) has been taken out but he most certainly does. So she starts planning anew.

///

Emma knows she can’t pull off decorating Killian’s house the way she wants to in a single day. But to keep the surprise, she needs to do it all while he’s at work. So on the 2nd of December Emma Swan does something she has never done in her entire life. She calls every person who has ever told her ‘anything you need, just give me a call’. Which admittedly aren’t that many people but are still better than just Emma, her two hands, three ladders and an uncountable amount of Christmas lights.

The things we do for… you know, our neighbours across the street.

///

She wakes up at 6am on the 2nd and by 7:30 is in front of Killian’s house with coffee and donuts for her whole group of elves. Which turns out to be a lot larger she could’ve ever hoped for.

David, the police officer she seems to work with the most when bringing her skips in, has brought along his wife who seems to Emma the personification of holiday spirit. On a normal day Emma might be annoyed, today she will take all the eagerness and enthusiasm in the world.

Robin, one of those people she bailed out who actually showed up for his court date and has been on the straight and narrow ever since, brought his friend Will, who acts a tad too familiar for Emma’s taste but, as stated, she’s not turning anyone short of the Grinch himself away today.

His fiancé, Regina, shows up around lunchtime and Emma almost reconsiders that last one but about an hour in the woman’s brisk manner and downright snarkiness seems to accomplish miracles in getting Will back on track and discontinuing David and Mary Margaret’s make-out sessions.

Their neighbour, Belle, is a godsend until the moment her gaze meets Will’s across what’s probably miles of twinkling lights and Emma starts wondering if Christmas slipped by without her noticing and Valentine’s Day is taking her by storm.

///

At 7:05pm she is bouncing her foot anxiously on the curb, waiting to see Killian’s Desoto turn the corner to give everyone the signal. Then commotion arises, and by that she means Will almost hangs himself from one of the trees in Killian’s yard, and by the time she heads back to her post she finds one Killian Jones standing in his driveway and eyeing the yet unlit but beyond obvious makeover of his house.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she groans and maybe stomps her foot a bit. “No. Just… Go back and pretend to come home again.”

His stupefied gaze falls on her and her annoyance drains out of her in an instant, the whole thing uncomfortably reminiscent of a certain type of movies Emma refuses to admit she watches. But does.

“W-wha-“ Killian looks so beyond confused, somewhat awed, definitely dubious, the tiniest bit amused.

“Uh, what the hell,” she sighs and turns to call over her shoulder. “Make it shine, David!”

She went simple. Simple but dazzling.

Gradually, Killian’s driveway lights up, the dwarves gone but the runway now definitely more visible from the air, then both trees in his yard are illuminated in hundreds upon hundreds of red and golden lights, the stars on the windows, that she kept, have now spread all over the house, making it look like the bedroom ceiling of an astronomy-obsessed kid, which she may know Killian was, the chimney and door are basically two beacons of light, entirely covered in the brightest white lights she could find.

Emma takes a moment to take it all in and let out a happy little sigh before turning around to see Killian’s reaction.

If she thought the house was beaming a second ago, now she sees it has absolutely nothing on him.

Emma bites down on her lip as she watches the multitude of lights play in his eyes and across his whole face, cut cheek, slack jaw and all. He looks disbelieving and elated and stunned and absolutely in awe and so impossibly young and she recognizes that same flutter she felt two years ago when he gave her the widest smile she’s ever been on the receiving end of and two thumbs up. Only now it’s more like a whole herd of raindeer setting off to take a turn around her heart before flying away.

“Did you really-“

He seems to still have trouble forming sentences so Emma concedes to taking the three steps that separate them. If there’s a little bounce to her step, she can always blame it on the nerves leaving her body along with the herd of reindeer.

“Mhmm,” she hums, proud and pleased as punch and still somewhat mesmerized by the look on his face, and his face in general. “Do you like it?”

She tilts her face up, anticipation and the tiniest trace of anxiety no doubt playing all over it.

“Do I-“ he shakes his head and looks down at her, eyes wide and bright. “Swan, this house has never looked better.”

“Hmmm,” she taps her chin in thought. “I don’t know, I rather liked the pirate Santa.”

He snorts and leans forward so his chest almost presses into her own.

“I can be your pirate Santa,” he smirks, eyes slipping for a second to her mouth. “Least I could do.”

“Yeah…,” she licks her lips, swaying that last possible inch closer. “But you’ll have to go change for that and I was really hoping you’d like to express your gratitude first.”

“Why, of course,” he grins naughtily (no other word for it, take note, non-pirate Santa!). “ _Thank you_ , Emma.”

She feels her lower lip nudge the tiniest bit forward.

“Is that all my hard work is worth to you?”

“Well, I-“

“Oh, bloody hell, just snog each other already, it’s bloody freezing out here and we wanna have a drink sometime tonight!”

Emma’s eyes fall shut and she thinks Killian must feel the growl that rumbles through her chest with how close he’s standing.

“That,” she grinds out. “will be Will.”

“Don’t like him,” Killian states before raising his voice. “Oy, mate, I was getting ar-“

Emma groans again, grabs the lapels of his jacket and swallows whatever the end of that sentence was meant to be.

It takes more than a couple of pleading looks from Belle and Emma’s hand slipping around Killian’s waist and into his back pocket to pull him closer and whisper in his ear but eventually they manage to convince him to let Will inside and even let him have some mulled wine.


	16. Baby There're Cookies Inside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Character A bakes too many Christmas cookies so they share it with Character B.

He doesn’t know her name but he knows other things.

She has exactly one grey beanie, that makes her hair look even more like spun gold in contrast, and exactly one pair of black cut-off gloves, that make her fingers look even more slender and pale than they are.

She can’t be more than 23, 2 years his junior, but there’s something in the set of her features that he associates with a person who has seen many sides of the world, many of them not too pretty.

For the last two weeks she has been coming in every day, a bare half an hour after he opens. He always stops himself seconds from asking Ruby, if she’s here during the weekend as well. Somehow he knows she is.

She always orders a cup of tea, sits in the furthest corner of the diner and leaves when there’s barely an hour left till closing time.

She never orders any food and, while she does dash out for a couple of hours around lunchtime sometimes, it’s by no means a rule.

A couple of times he catches sight of a ruffled paperback in her hands. _Oliver Twist_ one time, _Peter Pan_ the next.

He doesn’t think much about it at first but then, towards the end of that second week, December really makes itself known and her departure starts sliding nearer and nearer to closing time. There’s this apprehension in her eyes he notices and it’s not the regular annoyance or reluctance to brave the cold outside the cozy diner that he sees on the faces of most patrons during the winter months. Her worry seems almost a physical thing to him, digging its feet into the floor, while she tries to lead it towards the door.

Granny has been gradually expanding his duties and the first time he’s tasked with baking her famous sugar cookies, he makes almost twice as much as he should. And Killian has a pretty sizable sweet tooth but he doubts his ability to eat the dozens of extras.  So when she starts zipping up her jacket, which looks like it offers little to no protection from the wind outside, and it’s been one of those days when she didn’t dash outside around lunchtime, he calls out without thinking much about it.

“Hey, wait!”

He sees her back go ramrod straight and she seems to brace herself before she turns around with a painfully fake smile.

“Sorry , love, I was just wondering, if you’d like some sugar cookies?”

Her eyebrows jump up and her smile slips and twists into something that looks like suspicion.

And she has yet to say a word. In fact, he has never heard her say anything other than ‘hey’ and ‘tea, please’ and ‘berries’ or ‘apple and cinnamon’.

“It’s just that I made way too much. And Granny’s gonna have my ass for it.”

A lie (Granny, bless her soul, won’t scold him for anything short of burning the place down). And she senses that, if her face is anything to go by, but she doesn’t call him out on it so he powers on.

“So, yeah, if you wanted some, they’re free,” he finishes, feeling all kinds of stupid, his fingers hard at work behind his ear.

For her part, she looks way more reluctant than anyone should be about free cookies in his opinion.

“No one who had them today has died yet,” he chuckles weakly and starts thinking of a graceful way to back out of the whole interaction when she finally cracks a smile.

It’s only then that he realizes he hasn’t seen her smile even once in the last two weeks.

“How would you know?” she shoots back, lifting a challenging eyebrow that makes him laugh in turn.

“Touché.”

She gives him this look, makes him feel like he is being tested and he sure as hell didn’t study for it. It’s quite unnerving actually, how at her mercy he feels in those short seconds.

“I can have some cookies,” she says with a shrug.

He seems to have passed.

///

At gingerbread cookies he learns that she has been in New York for barely a month and hasn’t exactly been exploring, unless you count the interior of his workplace.

At chocolate chip he learns that she likes the idea of a white Christmas but is weirdly apprehensive of actually getting one.

At peanut butter he learns that no, she doesn’t have any family in town or much in the way of plans for the holidays.

At glazed lemon he learns that she absolutely cannot stand lemon. Or any citrus fruit for that matter.

At sugar and cinnamon he learns her name. Emma. Emma Swan.

 _Emma_ exited the café with a bag of his cookies mere minutes ago and he is already locking up and talking himself out of feeling like he will miss her over the Christmas weekend, like he will spend Christmas Eve making cookies he’s not actually gonna eat.

Maybe it’s because his mind is still on her that he notices her ducking into an alley to his left. Maybe it’s because he knows she’ll still be on his mind when he goes to sleep that he follows her.

She gets into a yellow VW beetle and he expects to just watch her drive away with something very akin to disappointment lodged in his breast. Except she doesn’t. And upon closer expectation, it doesn’t look like she has been driving much of anywhere recently.

Killian approaches the car, somewhat cautiously for reasons he’s not entirely sure of, and peaks inside. Emma is sitting in the passenger seat, a blanket in her lap and half a cookie stuffed in her mouth. He can’t quite keep his smile down even as he puts the pieces together and feels his brows furrow together.

He hesitates for a handful of seconds. Then he knocks on her window.

If he didn’t feel so guilty for startling her, Killian’s sure he would’ve founds the way she jumps, sputtering cookie crumbs all over, highly amusing. But all he feels is concrete as he watches her turn undeniably frightened eyes towards him.

The fact that her shoulders seem to drop with a relieved sigh when she recognizes him helps a bit.

She hesitates for a solid ten seconds before finally lowering the window. Then she waits and waits and eventually lifts an expectant eyebrow at him, looking rather exasperated. He can see where that façade cracks though, he can see where she is just as alone as he is and a whole lot colder.

“Are those your Christmas plans?” he asks and knows it’s the wrong thing before it’s even left his mouth.

“I’m sorry if they don’t live up to your standards,” she grounds out and starts rolling up her window.

“Wait, love,” he reaches to put his hand on the window but decides against it and just lifts his arms in a placating gesture.

Her eyes flicker to his left forearm for barely a second, the way they always do, but he does get the impression that he might have lost the other hand as well, if he’d put it in the way of her window. She does stop but takes to regarding him with a mixture of distrust and confusion instead.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be an arse,” he says honestly and the self-offense seems to earn him a point or two so he gathers the courage to go on. “Most people have trouble starting out in New York. I know I did.”

“Yeah, well,” she shrugs and looks down. “I wasn’t doing much better before I came here either so.”

“So maybe you should let someone help.”

Her eyes shoot back up to his and he can’t tell if she’s mad at him or at herself but she sure doesn’t look like she’s about to entertain the suggestion.

“Like you?”

“Well… yeah.”

Emma scrutinizes him much like she did the first time he held out a bag of cookies to her. She crosses her arms in front of her chest and gives him an empty smile and he knows he’s about to be tested again. And he didn’t study. Again.

“So what would you suggest to help me with?”

“Not spending Christmas in your car for starters,” he responds honestly as he sees no point in beating around the bush and thinks she can hardly get more defensive.

If her face is anything to go by, he’s wrong about that. But Killian swallows and continues anyway.

“So I could give you some cash for a hotel or give you the keys to Granny’s,” he says and sees her stone cold expression warm with surprise.

He can’t say he blames her. They’ve emptied the cash register before the holidays but there’s still plenty of damage she could do, if she is inclined to. And he hardly knows her. Yet he knows his suggestion is in earnest.

(Granny might indeed have his head for this one.)

“But, honestly? I don’t think you want to spend Christmas alone in a hotel room or a diner booth so I think you should come and spend it with me,” he finishes, voice surprisingly calm and reasonable.

At least he thinks he sound reasonable. Emma seems to waver between bewilderment and amusement.

“And I’m supposed to know that you’re not a rapist or a murderer how exactly?”

“How am I supposed to know you aren’t?” he fires back.

“You don’t. Which is what makes inviting me to your home for Christmas all the more ridiculous.”

Killian shrugs. He isn’t pretending there’s much common sense in what he’s doing but it does make sense to him regardless.

“Well, I’ve decided to worry about that when I wake up on Christmas morning to find that you’ve stolen all the sugar and cinnamon cookies.”

Emma lifts up the bag still in her hand with an unimpressed ‘you mean those cookies’ face.

“Swan, please, you think I’ve given you my whole stash of cookies? I don’t like you _that_ much.”

For the first time he expects she might give his suggestion a thought. He doesn’t expect her to open the passenger door and slide over behind the wheel. He frowns in confusion as she grins a little.

“You’re giving me a place to stay, right?”

He nods.

“Well, I can at least give you a ride there.”

He grins back.

///

Whatever confidence Emma displayed when accepting his offer has evaporated by the time she kills her engine and grabs her backpack upon his insistence that yes, he is sure about this. She snorts when he offers to carry it for her and waves awkwardly for him to lead the way.

She trails behind him very much like a scolded child but slowing down doesn’t seem to bring her into step beside him so he has to either let her do her thing or they might just end up stuck in the hallway, unmoving, Emma resolutely two steps behind him.

She hesitates again at the door and he lets out a heavy sigh, tossing his keys on the hook by the door and turning to her with his most sincere expression.

“Look, love, I know I have no way of proving that I’m not an ex-con or something. And looks might not exactly be backing me up on this,” he says, lifting his left arm a little with a rueful smile. “But I do think the fact that I bake cookies for a living should earn me some points.”

She shakes her head and snorts again at that but this one is softer, less distanced, less distrustful.

“It’s not that. I just…” she bites her lip and looks everywhere else before finally looking at him. “I’ve never spend Christmas with anyone.”

She shrugs, a failed attempt at nonchalance, if he’s ever seen one.

“I’m not sure what… how that’s even done.”

“Well, luckily for you, I’m not expecting a visit from the Christmas Inspection Services so I think we can do pretty much whatever we want,” he says in a stage whisper that earns him an eyeroll and her finally crossing his threshold.

///

“Tea?”

“Not particularly fond of it.”

“Wh-“ Killian turns from the stove to stare at the woman swinging her feet from where she’s sitting on his kitchen island. “Wait. What the hell do you mean you’re not fond of tea? I’ve seen you drink nothing else for the past three weeks.”

Emma shrugs and looks down at where she’s pulling her sleeves down as far as they would go.

“It’s the cheapest and warmest.”

“Oh.”

He waits for her to look up at him but she doesn’t. So he moves closer until her still swinging feet are almost kicking his knees.

“So what are you fond of?”

She finally raises her hazel eyes and Killian swears he’s not _that_ full of himself but for one bizarre second it seems like she’s about to say ‘You’.

“Hot chocolate. With cinnamon.”

She shrugs again and he gets the feeling that it’s her way of erasing whatever it is that she’s said, devaluing it.

He considers for a second. Knows she’s still terribly uncomfortable, knows he risks not finding her in his apartment when he gets back. But for some reason it feels like the right thing to do in this moment.

“I’ll be right back. Make yourself at home.”

///

When he returns with all the necessary ingredients for making hot chocolate from scratch, it seems that his gamble paid off.

Emma is snuggled in his armchair with the blanket usually thrown over the couch over her lap and his copy of _David Copperfield_ in her hands. And she jumps up and practically skips into the kitchen when he announces his beverage-related plans.

///

“So why are _you_ spending Christmas alone?”

“No family left to spend it with… You?”

“No family to begin with… Friends?”

“Not the friendliest of people-“

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“Well, you’re just so easy to get along with, love.”

The pillow hits him straight in the head.

///

 “What do you mean you’ve never watched _The Holiday_? I thought I was the one without any Christmas know-how!”

“Contrary to what you might think, Swan, Jude Law’s face is not essential to Christmas.”

“Well, it sure always makes me feel like it’s Christmas.”

“Then by all means, get in the spirit, and I’ll go make myself some dinner.”

“Oh, stop sulking. You’ll watch it with me and then I’ll help you make dinner.”

“You sure got used to bossing me around my own home quick.”

“Yes, and I said stop sulking. I’m not spending Christmas with Jude Law, am I?”

“Not for lack of opportunity, I’m sure.”

“I solemnly swear to turn him down, if he calls.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

///

“Do we really need more cookies? I thought you had a whole ‘stash’.”

“You might be the worst sous-chef I’ve ever had.”

“Have you _ever_ had a sous-chef?”

“… That’s beside the point.”

“Ugh. How do you do this with one hand? My arms are already aching.”

“I can tie your hand behind your back and you can find out.”

“…”

“Emma, no! You can’t even do it with two hands!”

///

“I’m not taking your bed.”

“You’re my guest.”

“I’m someone you picked on the street.”

“So crass, Swan. I didn’t “pick you”, I enticed you into coming over.”

“That’s creepy.”

“And picking someone on the street is the true mark of class?”

“Ugh, Killian, just sleep in your bed. Trust me, your couch is a vast improvement from my car. Hell, your bathtub is probably an improvement.”

“I don’t have a bathtub.”

“Excuse me? I’d like to take you up on the hotel offer now.”

///

“This is ridiculous.”

“Feel free to go to bed at any time.”

“We haven’t known each other that long, Swan, but I can assure you that I’m more stubborn than you.”

“You just proved that we haven’t known each other that long.”

“Alright. What if we are equally stubborn and end up spending the night on the couch with an empty bed ten feet away?”

“That would be stupid.”

“Precisely.”

“So you should go to bed.”

“Bloody hell!”

///

“How’s your neck?”

“Same as yours I’m guessing.”

“Shut up.”

///

They go to the store together to buy more chocolate to melt into hot cocoa like the adults they are.

She decides to do all things with one hand for the day. She has one end of her glove between her teeth and is trying to wiggle her fingers inside it when she catches his look.

Honestly he is just trying to calculate if they’ll make it out the door before the last store closes. But whatever is on his face seems to make her think that he’s upset about her little experiment. Which seems to upset her in turn. Killian is still trying to catch up to what’s happened when he hears Emma’s breathing hitch in the middle of her apologies and sees her eyes sparkle unnaturally.

And that’s pretty much the story of how he hugs Emma Swan for the first time.

///

Killian can make gingerbread cookies with his eyes closed at this point.

So the way Emma’s sweater slips down, exposing her shoulder and the grey strap of her bra, the way she keeps blowing at the strands of hair that escape her braid and fall in her sparkling eyes, the way her laugh fills the kitchen when she puts a spoon under the water and it splashes her in the face, and the way she shrieks and grabs for his stump to regain her balance as she slips on the little puddle that formed on the tiled floor, those are the things he blames his absent-mindedness on, those are the things he blames burning his right wrist on.

His hiss and subsequent curses are much less amusing than her childish shrieks but she just grabs his non-burned wrist again and leads him into the bathroom and takes out his first aid kid.

And that’s pretty much the story of how Emma Swan holds his hand for the first time.

///

They eat more than any two humans should no matter what holiday it is.

And then watch _Love Actually_ because he’s systematically biting off the heads of all of their gingerbread men and Emma’s wearing a Santa hat she found along with his two sets of twinkling lights and Killian has always believed in ‘in for a penny, in for a pound’.

She tells him the whole ‘girls are so into musicians’ thing is no joke. He tells her he used to play the guitar. She asks if he still has it and upon his nod, asks if maybe he could teach her some. Asks if guys are into musicians as well. He doesn’t know really, supposes he’ll be into lumberjacks as well, if she put on some flannel and started swinging an axe.

And that’s pretty much the story of how Emma Swan kisses him for the first time.

///

They decide that since they fell asleep on the couch together, they can fall asleep on the bed together as well.

And they do. And they only wake up when the sun is high in the sky and blinding them with the way its rays bounce off the snow covered rooftops outside.

Emma jumps out of bed and practically runs to the window, squishing her nose against it in a way that does something terrifying to his heart. And she’s only wearing a damn flannel shirt, and her hair is a mess, and she breathes out his name against the window and tells him they’re having a white Christmas as if he’s not currently half-blinded by the bloody snow and half by her beauty. And when she turns around he’s sure all those terrifying things happening to his heart are written all over his face.

They can’t scare her too much though, if she slips back between the covers and kisses his collarbone and his chest and every other part her lips can fit against.

And that’s pretty much the story of how he realizes he’s never letting Emma Swan go.


	17. Santas Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 25 Days Christmas Romance Challenge|| Day 17: Character A has to dress up as Santa for Christmas.
> 
> A sequel to [Better Together](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8878159) which you needn’t read to get this but may give a try, if you like fluffy CS parenting ;)

Emma pushes the door slowly, face scrunched up in concentration. She peaks inside and sighs in relief. One down. Slipping in, she tiptoes to Annabelle’s bed and pushes her little socked foot back under the covers before looking down at the little girl, her face buried deep under the STAR WARS duvet, leaving Emma to kiss the only visible part – the top of her head.

She closes the door, sends a silent prayer to whatever deity watches over exhausted parents and moves onto the room right next to Annabelle’s. She fist-pumps the air silently upon seeing that Henry is also finally asleep. Her son is displaying his lack of affection for blankets of any sort as always so she takes her time tucking him in extra securely before inching out of the room.

She may or may not do a little celebratory dance on her way to the living room. But her triumphant grin quickly turns into an exasperated frown when she sees that her husband has fallen asleep right along with the kids.

“Killian,” she hisses as she leans over the back of the couch he is comfortable sprawled on. “Get up! The kids are finally asleep.”

“So am I,” he mutters and turns over to snuggle into the recesses of the cushions.

“You’re the one that insisted we do this. ‘Swan, they’re merely ten! We can't do that to them, luv! Let’s keep in up at least until they’re bloody teenagers!’”

“Uhhh, stop with the accent, Swan,” Killian just grunts in displeasure. “Have mercy.”

“Alright then,” she straightens up and folds her arms over her chest. “Then I’m just gonna go and tell them. And while I’m at it, I think I’ll tell them there’s no Neverland either.”

“I’m up! I’m up!” Killian jumps off the couch faster than he probably would’ve if the house was on fire.

Emma huffs but grins in obvious satisfaction.

“I married a devious woman that doesn’t let me catch a wink,” he grumbles.

“And you don’t normally complain about it,” she shoots back, one eyebrow raised in a challenge.

“Mmm, when you put it like that.”

Faster than she would’ve imagine possible, Killian drops one knee back on the cushions and reaches over to tug her as close to him as the back of the couch will allow. It leaves them regretfully separated but it does put him at the perfect height to nuzzle into her neck.

“How would you like to put on my Santa costume?”

“I don’t get why- oh,” Emma’s hand comes to grip at his neck as he bites down on her collarbone. “Why you bother with that, if- ah, if we wait for the kids to fall asleep.”

Killian lifts his head and grins cheekily at her.

“Never hurts to be prepared, love.”

“Well, then,” Emma leans down until they are nose to nose. “Are you gonna break it out or what?”

In fact, Killian only has a Santa hat and a coat, he absolutely refuses to be seen in those baggy monstrosities supposed to pass for pants. He also has a t-shirt with a Santa Claus drawn on it, which he got from the kids last year, because apparently he is never getting anything but clothes made by his family ever again.

He is weirdly ok with that.

“Is this it?” he asks as he straightens up from under the Christmas tree, Santa hat a little askew on his head.

“Is this is?! Killian, I’ve never seen so many boxes in one place,” exclaims Emma from where she is still on her knees, fixing the bow on a sky-blue rectangular box, which may or may not be Annabelle’s new lightsaber.

“I don’t know. I still think we should’ve gotten Henry that chopper as well.”

“He wanted a ship, he’s gonna love the ship. Please, stop spoiling him.”

“It’s Christmas! You can’t spoil kids on Christmas, Swan!”

“Umm, yeah, pretty sure you can.”

“No, it is simply not-“

“Daddy?”

In the future, when she tells that story, Emma can never help saying how freaking impressed she is with her husband’s speed of thinking and execution.

In one fluid motion Killian pulls his Santa hat low over his face, pushes Emma unceremoniously behind the couch with his stump and then quickly hides it behind his back, all the while moving away from the bright tree that’s the only source of light in the room. He only half turns to face the little girl, rubbing her eyes in the doorway, his voice is gruff but gentle and for a second Emma is sure he must have rehearsed for his Santa performance.

Also, Killian with an American accent? Weeeird… but also kinda hot.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. Daddy must have gone to bed already. Just as you should.”

“Santa?”

“The one and only.”

“Did you bring me presents?”

“Have you been a good girl?”

Annabelle nods eagerly, curls flying everywhere.

“Then you know I did.”

“Did you bring some for Henry as well?”

Emma’s heart squeezes in delight.

While Henry and Annabelle have been no exception to occasional sibling rivalry and the expected throwing of toys, pinching and hair-pulling, they have also fallen into life in the same home almost as seamlessly as she and Killian have. They are an absolute tornado when they gang up on their parents but Emma secretly loves all of their “operations” because they guarantee at least a week of peace and absolute love between the kids.

“Sure did, duckl- honey.”

She tries to stifle her giggles and feels Santa’s socked feet kick her lightly in the shin.

“Now, I think you should go back to bed and let me finish here so you can have all your presents tomorrow, yeah?”

Annabelle yawns and nods at the same time and Emma has to remind herself that she cannot go and sweep her into her arms right now.

“Oh, my dwarves told me you have a birthday soon as well, and I always seem to have some presents left over, maybe you should tell me what you’d like?”

Her husband, ever the opportunist.

“It’s ok. Mommy and daddy will get me anything I want,” she yawns again and turns to go. “You should take the extra presents to those kids mommy and daddy bought gifts for last year.”

“That’s very sweet of you, little love,” Killian slips one of his typical endearments out of sheer affection for his daughter but she seems too sleepy to notice and just waves at him as she heads back to her room.

He sighs in relief and pulls his hat up so he can see properly again.

“What do you have to say for preparation now, Swan?” he turns to her, frowning when he sees that she hasn’t moved from her hiding spot yet. “Emma?”

Emma turns her face up and even with only the help of the twinkling lights she knows Killian can see the tears in her eyes. He drops down beside her and wraps his left arm around her waist to tug her into his lap.

“Are you alright, my love?”

“She-“ Emma drops her head and sniffles a little before looking into his eyes again. “She said…”

“I know. And _you_ know that, my spoiling them aside, the kids know how lucky they are. Know that not everyone is.”

“No, I- I know. It’s not that.”

She is beyond proud that their children know how others grow up sometimes, how Killian and Emma grew up, and they feel empathy and want to help like their parents do. But she does know that, that’s not what has her clinging to Killian’s Santa t-shirt where his coat has fallen open.

“She called me ‘mommy’.”

“Well, of course, love, you are her mother.”

Legally, she is.

Turns out that when you are almost in your 30’s and you have a kid and you know who you are, it doesn’t take too long to figure out what you want either. She and Killian dated for less than half a year before getting engaged and for another half a year before getting married.

So for the last year, legally speaking, she has been Annabelle’s mother. But Annabelle doesn’t call her that.

The thing is, the kids have been 100% on board from the start. The joined rides to school, the movie nights, the sleepovers, the little road trips, the moving in together, the wedding, the whole being a family. So she tried not to worry, tried not to question it when Anna _did_ tell her that she loves her.

But Henry starting to daddy Killian left and right a mere month after they all started living together didn’t exactly help. And while Henry has never met his biological father, Annabelle doesn’t really remember her mother. Stolen watches, drunk drivers. Stories that keep up the parents but thankfully not the kids.

So Emma decided to be patient, to not let that one detail affect the otherwise wonderful relationship she has with her daughter.

It’s just that this is probably the only moment in her life that patience has actually paid off.

“No, she doesn’t,” she says simply, giving Killian a watery smile. “Or she didn’t.”

“What do you mean, I’m sure-“

Killian seems to rack his brain for whatever it is that he has missed so she just reaches over and smoothes the furrow between his brows, slides her hand down his face and nudges his chin up so his gaze meets hers again.

“It’s okay.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“It wasn’t that big a deal.”

“It was obviously big enough for you to notice. I can’t believe I-“

“Killian,” she moves even closer, settling more comfortably in his lap, wrapping her arm around his waist as she continues to stroke his cheek. “You didn’t notice because it wasn’t a problem. We’ve always gotten along just fine.”

“You’ve gotten along brilliantly!”

“Exactly. I love Annabelle with all my heart and I’ve never doubted that she loves me too. So it was just… a thing. A thing I decided not to obsesses over.”

“But you thought about it. And you didn’t tell me.”

He still looks more upset with himself than anything else so she sucks in a breath and sighs against him.

“I didn’t want you to think I was unhappy. With Anna. Or you. Or anything,” she shakes her head and smiles at him, sure and content. “’Cause I am. I’ve never been happier than in the last two years.”

“Me neither,” he whispers and kisses her, soft and sweet, rubbing her nose with his as he pulls back. “And I know that applies to Annabelle too. And Henry.”

“Yeah,” she nods. “I know as well.”

///

She is awoken at 7:15 to her husband’s grunts as he is attacked by all the limbs of two ten-year-olds and his pleas for her to save him from his impending doom. She is awoken at 7:15 on Christmas Day to her son going on about how they need to get up because they need to open their presents as well and she can’t wait to see what they’ve drawn on Killian’s new t-shirt. She is awoken at 7:15 on a Sunday to a mouthful of hair and little fingers tickling her ribs and a little girl bouncing on her midsection and telling her all about Santa.

She has definitely never been happier.


	18. Saving Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 25 Days Christmas Romance Challenge || Day 18: Character A and Character B have to save Christmas.

“Emma Swan?”

“Who’s asking?”

“Oh, my apologies. This is Killian. Killian Jones. David’s friend? We met at Robin and Regina’s Halloween party a couple of months ago?”

Emma could’ve stopped him after his name. Honestly she could’ve stopped him after the ‘apologies’. She doesn’t know that many people who talk like that. Meaning she knows one. David’s friend. David’s very attractive, very suave, very good-looking-in-leather-pants, friend. Killian. Killian Jones.

But she lets him ramble on for two reasons.

First, from what she gathered at said Halloween party, Killian Jones’s ego could benefit from thinking there existed a woman who crossed his path, shook hands with him, did rum shots with him and was not, for weeks after, plagued by his stupid blue eyes and his even stupider smirk and the ghost of his warm hand at the small of her back and his hot whisper in her ear, running a hilarious commentary with the true (or so he said) facts of the stories David was telling about his year abroad.

Second, Emma is not that woman. But he doesn’t need to know that.

“Oh, Killian,” she says finally and tries not to let her grin at his sigh of relief slip into her voice. “Hey. Don’t remember giving you my number.”

“That would be because you didn’t. I swiped it from David’s phone,” he says with very little guilt in his tone.

“Oookay. And why did you go to all that trouble?”

“Because I need you to help me save Christmas.”

Emma laughs. And then laughs some more. And then snorts and wipes at the moisture in her eyes. And then she plops down on the couch with another little laugh for good measure.

“I’m sorry, I thought you said you need help saving Christmas.”

“I did.”

He doesn’t sound annoyed with her per say but he sure sounds impatient and ready to get down to business. The Christmas saving business. The business Emma is sorely unqualified for.

“Listen, Jones. I don’t know what you’re talking about but you’ve definitely come to the wrong person.”

Emma doesn’t mind the holidays but she is definitely the awkward friend that never quite knows what to bring and how to wrap presents and what an ‘ugly Christmas sweater’ truly means. And, she isn’t going to pass judgment based on a single meeting but Killian sure as hell seemed to be playing for her team. Not the awkward team so much as the I’m-glad-to-be-here-but-I’m-also-terribly-uncomfortable-with-all-this-showing-of-affection-and-cheer team.

“You know what I’m talking about and I’ve come to just the right person and if you can spare five minutes of your time, I know I can convince you of both.”

She wants to huff and say that no, she cannot spare any more minutes for him but when her grandiose plans for the weekend include doing laundry and re-watching _Elf_ she knows she’ll feel too much like a fraud, if she does that.

“Fine,” is the best he gets.

And a heavily put upon sigh.

Killian seems satisfied with that, if the little ‘whoop’ on the other side is any indication.

Emma _does not_ grin.

“Alright. So you know how David and Mary Margaret booked this cabin for us and Regina and Robin and Ruby and I don’t know who else?”

She does know that. Her stomach may or may not have done an excited little somersault when MM said that Killian was gonna be there for that. Another thing he very much did not need to know.

“And you know how two days ago it turned out the owner’s daughter is back or something and he can’t rent it out to us? And David and Mary Margaret are absolutely devastated?”

She knows that as well. She won’t use the word ‘devastated’ because ‘mildly upset’ is the worst mood MM can be in during the holiday season but he isn’t wrong, those two were probably looking forward to that weekend getaway the most.

“Now what you don’t know, and you better promise not to tell anyone or Dave will have my other hand for it-“

Emma wants to roll her eyes but he’s not even there to see it.

“Scouts honour.”

“Were you ever a scout, Swan?”

“… No.”

“Then I’ll need something better than that.”

She has been doing a lot of heavy sighing during this call.

“I solemnly swear to not jeopardizes any of your limbs.”

“That will have to do, I guess.”

And then he goes quiet and Emma feels her curiosity get the better of her despite everything.

“Well?”

“Dave was going to propose.”

Her gasp is such a cliché but hell if she can help it.

“Seriously?”

“Yup. All with the writing in the snow on Christmas morning and stuff.”

“Seriously?”

“I’m the guy tasked with getting up at the bloody crack of dawn and executing that stroke of genius so yeah. Serious as the frostbite I’m gonna get.”

Emma snorts at the image. Mostly ‘cause in her head he is still wearing his pirate costume from Halloween.

“And now the whole thing has fallen apart. And you must admit that telling Ruby would not be advisable. Regina, from what I gathered, won’t lift a finger to help and Robin won’t be able to keep it from her. Hence, we are the only people for the job.”

She hates agreeing with him. She hates how part of her is all flattered and stuff even more.

“So you wanna do what exactly?”

“Save Christmas!”

Emma drops her head in her hand, the other still clutching the phone to her ear.

“How _exactly_?”

“Well, we need to find a new cabin that can host at least seven people and organize everything obviously.”

“Jones, it’s the 18th of December.”

“I’m aware.”

“Good. Then would you like me to also book you Time Square for New Year’s while I’m at it?”

It’s his sigh that passes through the line this time.

“Look, Swan, I didn’t say it was gonna be easy. If it was, I wouldn’t be asking for help. But David and Mary Margaret are pretty much the only people I know here and the only people who have helped me with… bloody everything and they have been damn lovely about it and I wanna figure this out for them. I _know_ I can figure this out. I just thought you might be able to help. I thought you might want to.”

She sits there, staring at the tiny little Christmas tree she has, most of the decorations given to her by MM. She sits there, remembering the very first time she asked another human being for a favour and it was David. She sits there, thinking about how she hesitated at Robin’s door, wondering if she should offer to show Killian Jones around New York as the person with the most free time from their group and deciding that was not an Emma thing to do.

She is kinda tired of only doing Emma things.

“You look at everything within two hours of New York. I’ll look at options further away and some cabins that are up for sale. You can usually convince owners to rent those out if they don’t have any potential buyers lined up. We can meet tomorrow, if you are free. Do you know where Granny’s is?”

“First place Dave took me to,” he replies, sounding a bit dazed.

“Good. Say 3?”

“I’ll be there.”

“Great,” she nods to herself. “Well, see you.”

“Swan?”

“Yeah?”

“Told you I came to the right person.”

She already regrets this.

///

He is cuter than she remembers. Maybe it was the guyliner but Emma recalls how attractive Killian Jones is with perfect clarity, how piercing his blue eyes and how booming his laugh and how salacious his grin.

She does _not_ remember him being so darn cute.

He rushes into Granny’s at five minutes to 3 and starts apologizing before he’s even taken off his beanie and scarf.

“It’s fine. I caught my guy faster than expected and came early.”

“Ah, yes,” he grins at her with a truly thrilling combination of excitement and admiration. “How is the bailbonds business?”

If she is (pleasantly) surprised that he remembers, she doesn’t let it show. However, she can’t resist describing in vivid detail how she tackled a man almost twice her size a mere hour ago. She is rewarded with Killian’s eyes not once leaving her face, his gaze wide and enthralled. They both mutter their usuals distractedly when the waitress comes over.

What follows is two hours of them taking turns to complain about all the deadends and unanswered calls and people who literally laughed at them. Then she convinces him they need a break and he needs to try Granny’s hot chocolate and for an hour Killian Jones tells her about Ireland and his travels around Europe and his last two months in New York.

“Wow. So you were like, fresh off the plane at Halloween.”

“Pretty much, yeah,” he says, licking the whipped cream from the corner of his mouth and if Emma is staring at said mouth a bit too intensely, it is solely because she is such a good and attentive listener, thank you very much.

“You didn’t seem like it.”

“What do you mean, lass?”

“Well, you know,” she shrugs. “You seemed pretty confident in your right to be there.”

Killian frowns and she hurries to explain.

“Not that you didn’t. Have a right to be there, I mean. It’s just… I don’t know, I remember when I first joined Ruby and MM’s group it took me at least five parties to unglue myself from the wallpaper.”

“I think a costume party was a good start is all. It’s easier when you’re pretending to be someone else. You can pretend whatever you want.”

“So you don’t normally pillage and plunder?”

Emma can’t help herself. Mostly she thinks she just wants to see if the tips of his ears will flush that cute pink or if he’ll raise a suggestive eyebrow at her.

He leans forward and lowers his voice.

“Not on the first date.”

Then he winks at her.

Emma laughs and laughs some more and eventually looks at him, kinda worried that he might take offense. But Killian Jones is just smiling softly at her, head tipped to one side and he looks like he couldn’t have asked for a better reaction.

She doesn’t know if it’s the Christmas spirit or how soft he looks in the setting sunlight or the fact that she can’t remember ever being so certain that someone will do anything to make her laugh but when the thought shoots through her mind, she manages to talk her mouth into letting it out.

“Well, let’s see how many of those I can rack up before Christmas.”

His wide-eyed look and downright giddy smile is just what she was hoping for.

///

_‘Scratch Woodstock. I think the bloody horse barns are booked there.’_

_‘Jones, it’s 2 in the morning. Go to bed.’_

_‘I’m checking Waterville now.’_

_‘Go. To. Bed.’_

///

“This is a nice place. Think we can fit seven people in here for a weekend?”

She bunches her napkin into a ball and hits him in the ear.

“Bloody hell, Swan!”

“No making fun of my place.”

“I was doing no such thing. It’s most definitely bigger than mine.”

She hums, unconvinced but placated enough to return to her slice of pizza.

“How about a ski resort?” she asks, typing away on her laptop as Killian continues to walk around her apartment, _exploring_.

“I don’t know, luv. Dave wanted something real private. The place they picked was bloody miles away from civilization.”

“Well, with how things are going I think we might have to abandon civilization as well and just start building a cabin somewhere ourselves.”

His silence makes her turn around, thinking he has found something mortifying lying around. He is by her bookshelf, holding a John Green book that she is admittedly not too proud of owning but still, it could’ve been way worse. He is also looking at her with one eyebrow cocked and a thoughtful look on his face.

“ _I’m kidding_.”

“Worth considering for next year,” he says with a shrug and carefully puts her book back where he took it from.

They call it quits two hours later with identical looks of defeat. Emma walks him to the door and looks up in surprise when he stops abruptly at the threshold.

He is looking up as well.

“Ah, not a big fan of Christmas traditions, I see.”

She is confused for a second before she realizes what he was looking for.

“Oh. Umm, no, not really,” she shrugs, shoving her hands in her back pockets as she rocks on her heels a bit. “But second date comes with a kiss, right?”

Killian’s face stretches to accommodate his grin.

“Well, Swan, I would’ve said third,” he sways closer. “But your turf, your rules, I suppose.”

“Mhmm,” she hums in approval and leans forward as well, grabbing his left forearm.

She sees and feels him freeze up, his gaze unnaturally unmoving from where it landed on her lips.

“I’m sorry,” she mutters, pulling away quickly and taking a step back. “I-“

“No, no, it’s alright,” Killian swallows and looks up at her. “I mean, if you’re fine… it’s fine.”

Emma watches his Adam apple go up and down again and his lips twitch nervously at the last ‘fine’ and she takes two steps forward to make for the one back, bringing her almost flush against him, one hand sliding up his neck and the other going back to hold onto his stump, her toes giving her the boost she needs to reach his lips.

Killian responds immediately yet the whole thing is so chase and sweet she can’t help smiling into his mouth as their lips do little more than press together. But he’s warm and smells like her favourite beer, that they had with the pizza, and his hand slips up her jaw until it’s teasing the strands that have slipped from her braid and Emma thinks they stand there for a solid minute, just leaning against each other and putting a breath of distance between them every few seconds just to press their lips together again. So PG-13 she would’ve laughed, if it didn’t feel so damn nice.

///

_‘SWAN! I have found it! A cottage in North Hudson. 4  bedrooms. Fireplace. Near a little lake! The holy grail, Swan! Booking right now!’_

_‘That’s great. You’re great. I’m sure I’ll be able to appreciate how much WHEN IT’S NOT 4AM!’_

_‘Emma, we saved Christmas!’_

_‘Killian go to bed!’_

_…_

_‘omg! We did save Christmas!’_

_‘There she is.’_

_///_

On the 20th they make their way to North Hudson to check out what exactly Killian hurriedly (trustingly) booked.

She kisses him on the cheek when he meets her outside and feels like a freaking teenager again but really, Emma never did get to be a normal teenager so she feels pretty good about it.

“Are you sure we’re gonna make it there? And back?”

“Are you doubting me?”

“Hardly. I am in two minds about your car though.”

“Yeah, well… don’t be,” she tries to go for confident but she has her own doubts about the Bug’s capabilities but they couldn’t exactly take David’s truck.

This being her life, they get a flat tire within the first hour. To his credit, Killian doesn’t say a word or even throw her an accusatory, ‘told you so’ look. He just asks her to roll up his right sleeve and they get to work.

Honestly, it’s the most fun she’s had changing a freaking tire. And when she presses him against the passenger door and kisses him, there’s not a lick of last night’s innocence. His lips are chapped and Emma is sure she makes things worse with the way she bites down on them. But if the way he squeezes her hip, his hand slipping progressively lower until he’s lightly cupping her ass, is anything to go by, Killian hardly seems to mind.

The cabin is a dream. The fireplace is huge, the carpets are unrealistically soft, the bedrooms and the beds themselves are a bit too small but seeing as she has no plans of bunking with Ruby this year, Emma takes no issue with that.

They’ve just started for the city when Emma’s phone rings. She manages to spin a quick but likely tale about doing some last minute Christmas shopping. She’ll be offended at how quickly MM buys that but, well, who is she kidding.

David calls Killian not five minutes after the girls hang up. And Emma discovers exactly how shit at lying Killian Jones is.  It’s painful to watch really. At one point she is so close to just grabbing his phone and telling David she’s the one _who’s got him occupied_ that her knuckles turn a little white on the steering wheel from the effort to keep them there.

It’s not like she intends to keep this whole thing with Killian a secret and, by the looks of it, he couldn’t even if he wanted to. But she thinks she’ll keep it for after David and MM’s big moment.

///

That goes out of the window rather quickly.

She and Killian are forced to tell everyone about their surprise on the 22nd, just to make sure Mary Margaret doesn’t start cooking for the Christmas party at hers two days in advance and Ruby doesn’t disappear with one of her numerous devotees.

As it turns out, they needn’t have bothered.

Apparently Ruby whisked Belle to the mountains days ago and they are not expected to return until the New Year’s party. And then only because it’s Ruby throwing it this year. And Mary Margaret, after squealing and hugging each of them and then both of them and then tearing up and then kissing David and then squealing some more, announces that they need to still get together on the 23rd and prepare all manner of food before they set off the next day.

“What did you two plan for Christmas Eve? Crackers and hot cocoa?”

They exchange guilty looks. Emma’s pretty sure that was exactly what they would’ve settled on after realizing that they have nothing ready at 3pm on Christmas Eve.

It’s not until David and Killian leave to prepare the truck (because apparently she can just jump in her little VW but David’s car needs winter tires) and call Robin and Regina, it is brought to Emma’s attention that guilty are not the only looks she and Killian were exchanging.

“Spill!”

“Excuse me?” Emma blinks a couple of times to familiarize herself with the predatory look in MM’s eyes.

“Not only did you and Killian apparently conspire for days without letting anyone else in on your plans but you have been sitting there for the last hour looking for all the world like you’d like nothing better than to eat your pancakes off his face.”

“Mary Margaret!”

“What? I’m observant! And since Ruby is gone I’m just gonna have to take over her duties as well so spill. Is the sex good? It looks like it will be.”

“Oh my God! MM! I- _Seriously_?”

“What?”

The brunette looks so innocently confused despite her hardly innocent questions that Emma feels herself giving in. Reluctantly.

“We haven’t… We’re just… Maybe this weekend. We’ll see.”

Eloquent. She shrugs and buries her face in her hot cocoa to hide her blush.

“Wait, wait. So this is just…” MM waves her hand at where Killian was sitting minutes ago, obliviously protecting Emma from the Blanchard Inquisition. “Totally platonic?”

“Well… not _totally._ ”

“So you did have sex?”

“NO!”

“Wh- Emma, which one is it?”

“What part of we’re hooking up but haven’t fucked yet is so hard to grasp?” she huffs exasperatedly.

“The part where I’ve never known you to do that! Are you-“ Mary Margaret’s eyes widen comically and she continues in a whisper. “Are you dating?”

Right. Now she chooses to lower her voice.

“I… I think so?” Emma scrunches up her face, even as she smiles a little. “I mean… We… yeah, I’m pretty sure we’re dating.”

“Oh my God! Oh my _God_! This is bigger than Christmas!”

“Well… it did start with saving Christmas so…”

“I can’t even- Since when are you willing to date?”

Emma tries not to cringe at the memory of MM’s one too many attempts to set her up.

“Since your boyfriend convinced this really cute Irish guy that New York is the place to be?”

“I’m gonna ignore the implication that David’s unintentional match-making is better than mine and just focus on the fact that _you are dating_!”

“Are you trying to freak me out?”

“Are you freaked out?”

“I am by the thought of spending a whole weekend in a small cabin with you.”

“But not at the thought of spending it with Killian,” Mary Margaret almost singsongs and Emma gives her an evil look.

“Booking’s in his name. How much do you want to spend Christmas in a tent in the yard?”

///

“Hot cocoa?”

“Thanks,” Emma mumbles as she takes the mug Killian offers her.

“Everything okay?”

“Peachy.”

She doesn’t turn around but she hears the frown in his voice all the same.

“Have I done something to upset you, Swan?”

“What?” she turns to see him hovering by her armchair. “Oh. Oh, no.”

Emma leans to put her cocoa on the ground and uses the hem of Killian’s shirt to tug him beside her. It’s a very _very_ tight fit and she doesn’t mind one bit as she swings her legs over his lap.

“You’re not on my shit list,” she states and kisses his brow for good measure.

“But someone is, I take it?” he says as his hand circles her ankles and starts massaging her feet.

“I can promise no blood will be shed until the holidays are over?”

Killian laughs and she feels herself settle into the warm feeling it calls forth.

“Hold me,” she says suddenly before bending over to grab her cocoa.

“Whoa! Emma!”

She feels his left arm wrap tightly around her waist and his hand tighten around ankles again.

“Thanks!” she grins cheekily as she straightens, mug in hand.

“Give a man some warning, working with one hand here.”

“I did and you did great.”

“Mhm, and who didn’t?”

She frowns at him in confusion.

“Who got your panties all twisted up before I rode in with hot beverages and quick reflexes?”

Emma snorts in amusement before deciding that he was probably the best person to complain to.

“Regina keeps giving me those evil looks whenever I try to do anything in the kitchen. I’m not that bad,” she looks at him for confirmation before realizing he doesn’t really know that yet. “I mean, I know we had pizza when you came over but that’s just ‘cause I can be really lazy about cooking, not because I’m bad at it.”

“I’m not doubting you, lass.”

“So, yeah. That kinda sucks,” she shrugs a little. “And MM has this thing where she’s always trying to keep Regina in a good mood so she won’t really say anything unless she’s outwardly rude about it but...”

“But she says it all with a look?”

She nods reluctantly.

“I know, love, try having one hand and going near her pies.”

He chuckles, clearly not very bothered by Regina’s estimation of his culinary abilities, but Emma gets an absolutely murderous look on her face.

“It’s _fine_ ,” he insists. “In fact, we could just go to mine and do some Christmas baking of our own without anyone breathing down our necks.

“Right now?”

“Whenever you want to go.”

“I wanna go right now.”

“Then we’re going. We’re spending the entire weekend with this lot, I think we can slip away from the cooking party they’re not letting us cook at.”.

“Let me just arrange a leaving time for tomorrow with David,” she says, giving him a sound kiss and jumping off his lap.

 ///

“Swan, I don’t know how!”

“That’s why it’s called _learning_ , you big baby!”

“I’m not a baby! I’m just apprehensive, alright?”

Emma skates back to where Killian is still sitting on the edge of the little frozen lake.  He is pouting and has been refusing to do much more than put on his skates and let her tie them for him and Emma? Emma kinda loves him in that moment.

With his beanie low over his forehead and his coat hanging open and his overexaggerated pout and his skates still stubbornly buried in the snow and his sincerity about being _apprehensive_.

“You mean scared?” she teases with a smile.

“Would that get me out of it? Yes, I’m bloody scared! Dave said he broke his leg on a lake just like this. I’m already short on appendages, Swan. And you, not so long ago, promised not to jeopardize any of them.”

“David,” she explains as she tugs him reluctantly to his feet, stump and hand in both of hers. “Was drunk on eggnog and trying to impress MM. I’m not gonna let you break anything.”

He huffs, on the ice but refusing to budge.

“Don’t you trust me?”

If she bats her eyelashes a little… well, desperate times and all that.

“That’s not playing fair.”

“At best, you turn out to be a natural and enjoy the hell out of it. At worst, you bruise yourself and I take care of you all weekend.”

“Will you now?”

He shuffles a little closer and Emma slides backwards with a grin. Killian huffs but follows willingly enough.

“I know what you are doing.”

“Abusing your inability to stay away from my mouth?”

“Precisely.”

She lets him capture her lips with his when they reach the middle of the lake. He doesn’t exactly turn out to be a natural but doesn’t think twice about trying to catch her when she twists too quickly and starts falling. And even though they are both a bit bruised and more than a bit damp by then, she still has to forcefully drag him _off_ the ice when the sun begins to set.

///

With Ruby’s absence Emma has plenty of opportunity to occupy the fourth bedroom in the cabin. She doesn’t. At first she simply tells Killian to dump her stuff with his when he’s unloading her trunk. Then they trudge up together in their post-skating mess and change in his room, Emma feeling the tiniest bit guilty for sneaking a look over her shoulder when he remains firmly with his back to her. His very broad and well-defined back.

And then, when the post-food comma has finally let off, she can’t even be bothered to steer herself away from his side as they drag themselves from the fireplace, leaving behind a more than a little tipsy Robin and Regina.

“You can take the bathroom first, love,” Killian mumbles as he falls down on the almost-but-not-quite queen sized bed.

Emma stifles her yawn with a smile and crawls over him, dropping her whole weight onto his back.

“Oh! Bloody hell, Swan! Those last two cookies haven’t even set in yet.”

“Two?”

“Fine, four.”

She giggles and buries her nose in his hair, not making to move off him.

“I think they were five.”

Killian mutters something like ‘and they might all come out now’ but she disregards it.

“Say, captain, do you, by any chance, pillage and plunder on the fifth date?”

Emma yelps as Killian suddenly turns under her, his hand and stump gripping her hips when she’s about to topple off him.

“Five?”

“Mhmm,” she nods sagely and ticks them off on her fingers like the adult she is. “Granny’s, pizza at mine, the tire accident, cookies at yours, the lake.”

“Does the tire accident really count?”

“Am I only supposed to count quiet dinners?”

“You could just stop counting and kiss me.”

She rolls her eyes. But she does that as well.

///

It turns out that he does pillage and plunder on the fifth date. It also turns out that he’s very hard to wake up the morning after.

But Emma is pretty insistent. She is also pretty sure that there would be consequences to her waking him with the help of some snow gathered from the windowsill but hey, they did all this to set up David’s proposal. What good would it be, if the best man forgot to write out the damn question?

A lot of good, Emma thinks. But watching Killian bend down to arrange the pine branches of the ‘M’ is not bad either.


	19. In December (we hate the world)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 25 Days Christmas Romance Challenge || Day 19: It’s Character A’s first Christmas since a tragedy.

They meet in March. He – a blur of blue flannel and flying frisbees, fresh off his ship and unshaven, beer on his breath and exhilaration in his veins, bright eyed, 27 and on top of the bloody world, cursing Will for the awkward throw and reaching his arm out as far as it will go. She – an adorable mess of tangled limbs and blonde curls, lips chapped and pink and pulled back in a snarl, coffee spilled all over her coat and eyes flashing in anger like gems just teasing him to reach out, cursing at him for not looking where he was literally throwing himself and rebuffing all of his apologies and offers to buy her another drink and pay for her dry-cleaning.

They have dinner in April. He – a combination of trembling insides and cocky smirks, hair refusing to remain in its carefully chosen and executed arrangement, twirling the single rose in his hand round and round just so he doesn’t scratch his bloody ear off, praying to every deity out there that he doesn't blow his chance after frequenting her preferred coffee shop and working his blasted charms on her for weeks. She – a vision in red with teasing smiles and playful scowls, telling him not to spill anything over her 'cause that's her favourite dress, stealing food off his plate and nudging hers towards him, swiping the chocolate in the corner of her mouth and licking her thumb without the slightest clue about the silent roars of desire inside him, taking his hand to lead him down the street when they exit the restaurant minutes before closing time, slipping her fingers between his instead of putting on her gloves.

They go sailing in June. He – a picture of ease and confidence, feet planted firmly on the deck of his boat, carefree and proud, in his element and determined to give her everything she has been denied, enchanted by the stubborn way her hair keeps blowing in her face and the unreserved way she jumps and squeals in delight whenever the spray reaches her flushed cheeks, tugging at the ends of her sleeve to tip her into his lap, murmuring praises and promises against the hollow of her throat . She - a study in contentment, sunglasses perched low on her sunscreen-smeared nose, a childlike smile full of wonder and unadulterated joy permanently etched on her face, pointing at every single object on deck and asking him what it is and what’s it for, sneaking her arms around him and butting her nose into his shoulder blade, peppering his neck with kisses and breathing life to words he has been holding back all day.

They meet the friends and family in July. He – a personification of cool and collected, employing every single shred of charm and wit he possess to combat Elsa's initially frigid stare, keeping his arm obviously but not possessively wrapped around Emma's shoulders, soaking up every college story Elsa volunteers and laughing until Emma’s elbow almost crack one of his ribs, falling more and more in love with the rose colour high on her cheeks and the way she buries her face in his shoulder. She – a vibrating and irritable exposed wire, as much of a nervous wreck as he has ever seen her be, shaking Liam's hand firmly with a crooked smile that won’t pick a corner of her month in which to settle, letting out a little yelp as his brother pulls her into a hug, smiling at him with what she will most assuredly deny but are obviously tears in her eyes.

He ships out in September. A confusing mix of craving the tumultuous waves and aching all over at the thought of being away from her, kissing each of her knuckles and confessing that not a day will go by without a thought of her, bunching up her sweater in his grip and murmuring in her ear about visiting her dreams every night. She – a heart-wrenching picture of strength and vulnerability, shining eyes and arms squeezing him so hard he thinks (hopes) he'll have bruises for days, a trembling smile pressed against every inch of his face, words of present frustration and future patience.

 

He returns in November. A broken mess of a man, missing a hand, a medal and the conviction that led him into the Navy in the first place, still aching for her with every part of him and pulling away with all the same parts, twisted and scarred like all the rest of him, brushing only her very fingertips when she tries to hold his right hand, flinching away completely when she reaches for the bandages where his left one should be, occasionally avoiding phone calls and missing therapy sessions and generally drinking more than he should, going over every immoral detail of the mission he refused to complete and every ironic twist of fate that punished him for it, brooding and overthinking her absence when she is gone and rejecting and rationalizing her presence when she is around, hanging up and throwing his phone across the room at the first word of defense for the Navy from his brother, picking fights just to see how far he can push before she snaps and gives up on him. She – a beam of light in the darkness that he tries to shield his tired and disillusioned and red-rimmed eyes from despite the pleas of his heart, a force of nature trying to pull him back to her and then trying to hide her hurt when he remains as far emotionally as he has been physically for the last month, giving him space to come back on his own and then storming every defense he has carefully put up against the world when he doesn't, refusing to let him hide in his apartment for more than three days in a row and refusing to rise to his constant baits and refusing to give up on his arse and generally making his heart even more of a mess than it already is.

It all comes to a head in December.

He grinds his teeth and listens to her go on about how it's going to be small and private and how Elsa is gonna be there and that means Liam is gonna be there and if he keeps trying to wiggle out of it, she's gonna call them both and gang up on him. And he's been ignoring his brother and don't even get her started on their friends. And Killian is about to snap and ask if they wouldn't prefer to get together and just talk about him all night instead of have him there. But then she sighs on the other side and it sounds exhausted but so damn stubborn and he just can't keep doing this to her, not like that, half-assed and mean and never pulling far enough to break the string he seems to have tied around his bloody heart with a sailor’s knot he can never hope to execute again. So he decides to play a long game, a long game of crushing every bit of possibility left between them. He says he'll go, says he'll pick her up, asks her to wear the red dress and digs his nails into his palm and bites down on his tongue and hates himself for it.

He manages to avoid her for the two days before the party, snapping out his refusal when she asks to come to his physiotherapist with him and citing Christmas shopping that she obviously can't do with him unless she wants to ruin his surprise. The rub is he actually goes shopping, buys her that gift he never intends to give her, has it wrapped because he can’t do it himself and just so he can pretend, for the half hour that it takes to walk back to his place, the little red box in his gloveless right hand and his fingers freezing to it. Pretends he is actually gonna give it to her.

The 24th unfolds with one missed call and two gently probing texts that go unanswered. He sits on his couch, good old Mr Scrooge in his hand giving him a run for his money in the bastard category, and watches the clock in the corner of his laptop move from 6:00 to 6:06 to 6:10 to 6:17 to 6:21 to 6:30 because he apparently likes feeling every little bit of happiness in his heart burn out, crumble to ash and seep down into his heels.

Half a year ago he would've said Emma Swan is the single most impatient woman in all of New York City and won't wait for anything but the nastiest of skips for more than 10 minutes. In the last month he has learned that Emma Swan has the patience and nerves of a saint, the ability to duck under all his snide comments and nasty jokes and reach him, tangle her hands in his hair and press her lips to his brow and make him shut his bloody month for a few seconds and remember what not doubting everything you’ve ever known about life and yourself feels like. But he looks at his silent phone and thinks this, this is pushing it even for her and then, for a moment, he thinks she never expected him to show up at all, for a second, that is equal parts relief and utter despair, he considers the possibility that she never wanted him to.

And then there's a knock on his bloody door. One he resolutely ignores.

"I do have a key, you know? This is just a courtesy knock."

His leg starts bouncing in agitation and he squeezes the glass in his hand tighter but stubbornly refuses to twitch another muscle. His door opens seconds later.

He doesn't turn around but soon enough she is standing before him in all her agitated glory. That damn red dress hugging her curves in all the ways that he wants to and can’t, her lips are a matching hue and make his heart speed up even pressed as they are into a thin, unamused line. Her hair is curled the way it was when he first literally crashed into her and he notes that she has let it grow really long this time, wonders if it's intentional, wonders if she knows how much he loves it like that since he hasn’t told her. Her fists on her hips do nothing to take away from her elegance and everything to spike up his raging desire to grab said hips and pull her into him.

"So I take it we're not going to the party?"

He is in his sweatpants, hasn't showered since yesterday and is just another two drinks away from getting positively drunk. Two drinks he's suddenly desperate to get to.

"Why, love? Are you not feeling festive?"

He takes a sip and gives her a dark look for making him do this in person, for not being a coward like him and just letting them slip into nothing the way he has been trying to even since he got back and fighting her for it every step of the way.

"Honestly? No. What I'm feeling is confused," she states before her voice softens impossibly and he can't look her in the eyes anymore, not when the anger seeps out of them so quickly. "Killian, if you didn't want to go to the party, you could've just told me so."

"Oh, could I? Because you seemed pretty damn set on dragging me to it a couple of days ago."

"I thought you'd enjoy it! You haven't seen Elsa since you got back. You haven't seen Liam in a week!"

"You two seem to keep each other updated," he grits out and gets off the couch to head into the kitchen and refill his glass.

"Look," he hears her teeth grit together and feels an ounce of victory at managing to rile her up again. "I know arguing with me seems to be your new favourite pastime but is this really what you want us to do on Christmas Eve? Is this how you want us to spend our first Christmas?"

 _First_. It pierces him, fast and fierce, and he feels his shoulders sag as he leans his right elbow on the counter and drops his chin to his chest, his left arm hanging limp by  his side.

“No, I wanted some damn peace and quiet,” he mutters and watches her flinch from the corner of his eye, tries with every bit of willpower left inside him to leave it at that, to not yield an inch, and fails when she doesn’t budge from her spot. “And I wanted you to go and have a nice Christmas with people who can give you that.”

“They can’t give me that. They can’t give me you.”

He laughs, mirthless and jaded, and turns to her, spreading his arms wide.

“And I’m all you want for Christmas, right?”

It’s as sarcastic as anything he has ever said and he curses the small part inside him that says that’s all _he_ wants, curses even more foully the even smaller part that still believes it’s all she wants as well.

“No,” Emma grinds out and he lets his arms drop, tries and tries and fails to fix a mock-shocked expression on his face.

But then she charges at him and there’s only a couple of feet between them when he realizes he has backed himself into a corner in his own kitchen, caught like her willing prey between the refrigerator and the sink. He can’t do anything when she grabs his faded t-shirt and pulls him into her, lips harsh and punishing, biting at his bottom lip viciously, her hands pounding his chest hard enough to sting but not hard enough to push him away from her, furious and stubborn until she’s not. Until her hands slide up his neck and cradle his face, her lips releasing the tiniest sob that still makes him feel like the worst criminal in the world, abandoning his mouth to spread haphazard kisses everywhere else she can reach.

It’s so much like the time she sent him off to his ultimate failure and disillusionment and yet nothing like it. She was frantic and scared then, now she is frantic and angry, strong and hopeful then and strong and determined now. She didn’t tell him not to leave then but she is set on making him come back now.

She pulls away and drops her forehead against his. Hard. And again. And again. Until he is sure that she is waiting to see which one of them gets a concussion first.

“Bloody hell, Swan!” he reaches for her shoulders on instinct, realizing too late he can only grab one of them, and makes to drop his left forearm only to have her touch him where he hasn’t let her touch him for the last month.

Her forehead finally comes to rest against his, pressing into his skin almost aggressively, her left hand still on his cheek and her right one squeezing his stump only hard enough for him to know she is conscious not to hurt him, her breath is warm on his face and her nose is surprisingly cold against his. He realizes she is as tall as him and glances down to catch a glimpse of a pair of heels that he has very fond memories of.

“You’re not all I want for Christmas, you absolute fucking idiot,” she bites out, sounding enraged at the mere suggestion and making his brows bunch up in confusion even as he hears what he has been hoping to gift her for the last month.

Because she might say she doesn’t want him but Killian is pretty sure she’ll growl and bite at him if he tries to move even half an inch away.

“You’re all I want for always.”

Ah.

Well… bloody hell.

“Emma, this isn’t just… It’s not just this,” he mutters, fruitlessly trying to extricate his stump from her grip. “And it’s not just Christmas. I-I don’t know how to move in this world anymore. I don’t… I don’t think I believe in it anymore.”

He sighs, heavy and defeated and she laughs into his mouth, small and disbelieving. Her nose presses into his cheek and her chest bumps his own, and he closes his eyes and tries to memorize this moment. Let it be bitter and angry. It might also be the last one he spends so close to her and he wants to imprint every little detail of it on his bloody eyelids.

“And you think I did?”

He blinks in confusion, pulls his head away and receives that displeased growl he predicted.

“You think I believed in the fucking world or much of anything before you showed up?” she challenges.

“So now you do?”

She has never been the trusting one, the easily convinced one, the easily excitable one. It’s always a study in preparation and convincing and, more often than not, a bit of tricking her into the things. Which is why he doesn’t know how they can continue to work when he can’t find his own enthusiasm and inexhaustible energy and trust and fate and bloody pixie dust anymore.

“I don’t know, if I believe in the world, Killian. I don’t know if anyone, who understands it at least a little bit, does,” she says, so honest and aching that he drops his forehead back to hers without prompting. “But I believe in you.”

He snorts at that, thinks how tirelessly he has let her down ever since he left.

“I believe in freaking meant to be,” she almost yells, disbelieving even as her voice rings out with truth. “I believe that you will never let me pull off my own socks before bed. I believe you will never let me walk around in your shirt without bunching it up to check, if I’m wearing any underwear beneath.”

He tries and tries and fails not to crave the picture she is painting, recalling.

“I believe I’m never gonna forget to get you gummy bears when I go to the supermarket just as I’ll never fail to scold you for eating them. I believe I’m never gonna let you tie your own tie and not because you can’t, or whatever bullshit you wanna tell yourself, but because it makes me feel like you are mine and mine alone and no one else gets to see you like I do.”

He grits his teeth together and feels the identical tears rolling on both sides of his face, one getting caught between her fingers and making her press closer still, bringing her hand and his stump to rest over her heart.

“I believe in us. And if you tell me you don’t love me right now and will never love me again, I-“

Her breath catches and he kisses her cheek even though he knows he is ruining any chance he might still have of letting her go.

“Well, if you do, I’ll leave and let’s face it, I’ll probably come back at New Year’s.”

He laughs with her and can’t tell whose is more choked and disbelieving.

“But… but I _believe_ that you won’t. And that I can stay. For always.”

“And what of-“

“What? The world?” she shakes her head, unrelenting. “Don’t believe in it, if you can’t, if you don’t want to. God, Killian, _hate_ the fucking world for all I care. Just… just don’t hate me.”

“I could never hate you,” he responds without thinking and knows in that moment that he never stood a chance against the gravitating power of Emma Swan.

“Could you believe in me?”

He nods against her, feels where a strand of her hair has stuck to his cheek with the help of their combined tears and _Gods, they have never been such a mess._ But that’s probably why they are such a huge one right now.

“Could you let me in?”

This one takes a second, a second for him to inhale her exhale and focus on every point of contact between them and know he is not lying to her when he finally nods.

“Could you love me?”

“I’ve never not loved you, Emma. I think I loved you even when I didn’t know you.”

She snorts but nods as if that makes perfect sense.

“Could you go get the bag I left in the hallway so we can have some food?”

He pulls away at that, letting her hand drop from his face, and raises a disbelieving eyebrow at her.

“What?” she asks with a watery laugh, her free hand coming up to wipe at her nose and cheeks. “I can’t keep this emotional thing going all night, I’m starving.”

He shakes his head at her but can’t keep the smile that breaks through, doesn’t much want to.

But when he makes to pull his left arm away from her as well, she doesn’t budge, instead bends her head and kisses his scarred skin. And he goes absolutely still for a second but doesn’t flinch and doesn’t pull away and for the first time sees a future in which this is not a big deal to him, the way it isn’t a big deal to her even now.

The bag in the hallway has freaking Chinese in it and he comes back to find Emma on his couch and nursing what looks very much like _his_ glass of rum. He clears his throat and pointedly lifts the takeout bag when she looks at him over her shoulder.

“What?” she furrows her brows in obvious confusion. “Being in love with you didn’t magically make me a whiz in the kitchen.”

“No magic powerful enough for that, I gather,” he mutters, not quietly enough, if the throw pillow that hits him straight in the head is anything to go by.

Their feet are up on his coffee table, bodies pressed together from their ankles to their shoulders, and he is mourning the loss of her heels when the thought occurs to him.

“So what do we do, if we both hate the world?”

It’s a semi-joke but she doesn’t miss a beat.

“We start complaining about the quality of the wine at all social events and advice everyone to move as far away from the city and it’s toxic energy,” she mumbles around a mouthful of chicken. “And start wearing dark sunglasses like all the freaking time and sharing the most depressing current events on Facebook. And when we get old enough we get one of those houses that look like they have at least three generations of ghosts haunting them and yell at children when their ball ends up in our yard.”

“Or we just move somewhere really sunny but not smoldering hot, where there are barely any people and lots of citruses growing on actual trees and the water is crystal clear and we refuse to ever babysit for Liam and Elsa.”

Emma gives him this deeply affectionate but also kinda pitying look and pats his knee.

“Babe, you can’t make a half-decent hater, even when you’re trying.”

“Oy!”


	20. Round The World (and home again)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Character A returns to their birth-town for the holidays. Character B is their estranged childhood best friend.

It’s December and Emma has never seen the sky that angry at the world. But, to be honest, she doesn’t spend that much time gazing at the sky. She is too busy throwing clothes in a duffel bag.

She is, clearly, without a doubt, certifiably, insane.

_Another pair of jeans for sure._

She is absolutely out of her mind.

_And her sneakers._

She is not considering the consequences and all the possible ways this could blow in her face.

_And an extra pair of socks never hurts, right?_

She has been aching all day at the memory of his face when she said she won’t be there to send him off and now-

_Maybe two extra pairs?_

She is not considering or thinking or rationalizing or analyzing. She is going with her gut. Heart. Whatever.

_Fuck it._

She zips up her duffel, takes the stairs two at a time and consequently almost falls on her face. She wrenches the Bug’s door open, throws her bag in the back and breaks every traffic law on her way to the docks.

She misses him.

///

“Did you go home?”

“Hmmm?”

“Did you go to Ireland first?”

“Ah, no. No, I thought… a journey doesn’t start at home, it ends there, right?”

“… Right. I mean, I don’t… I guess.”

“…”

“So where _did_ you start?”

“Brazil.”

///

“Oh my _God._ You did not!”

“Scouts honour, Swan!”

“You were never a scout.”

“Well, maybe if I had been, I would’ve known how to light the damn fire properly.”

“I’ve never been more glad for that accent.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Means at least no one guessed you’re from here.”

“Perish the thought. It’s not like Americans ever make fools of themselves when they decide to discover the ‘outside world’.”

///

“So will I fit there?”

“Morocco?”

“Mhmm.”

“Yes and no, luv.”

“Well, that’s not indecisive at all.”

“You would take issue with so many things that we probably would’ve been thrown out of the country before we’d managed to get some lunch.”

“That’s a pretty solid ‘no’.”

“Aye, but… The way they dance. It’s something else entirely. You know how they say tango is all about passion?”

“Yeah?”

“You haven’t known passion until everything you want is right in front of you, a hand’s reach away… living, breathing, glimmering, tinkling, laughing… and you can never actually reach. And… all things slip through our fingers eventually, I supposed, but… Golden dreams go quicker than the golden sands.”

“Wow… so you fell in love.”

“I don’t know. I was so busy chasing it and being swept in it, I’m not sure what it was.”

“But plenty of passion.”

“Plenty.”

“And danger.”

“… and that.”

“Is that where-“

“Aye.”

“Was it…”

“Painful?”

“Worth it.?”

“You know, I’ve never asked myself that. It _was_. Does it really matter _what_ it was? Worth it or pointless or painful or…”

“No. No, I guess not.”

///

“Europe is a bloody trap.”

“A trap?”

“Aye, once you get in… you can never seem to get out. There’s always the next thing to see and the next thing to hear and the next street to cross and the next thing to _eat._ Gods, Swan, food. You don’t know what food is!”

“OK, now you’re becoming one of those obnoxious people.”

“Swan.”

“Yeah?”

“You don’t know food until you have walked all day through streets no living thing should be able to squeeze through, over cobblestones that have no business being just as slippery in the rain as they look, only to end up in a place where wine seems to pour endlessly, from Dionysus’s cupped palms themselves, and the pasta weaves you round and sucks you in rather than the other way around.”

“…”

“Swan.”

“Hmm?”

“You okay?”

“Yeah… when are you cooking for me?”

///

“Is it true? How romantic it is?”

“Can’t rightfully say, lass… Back then I thought I’d spend all my romance in much hotter climates, doing much less chase and picture-perfect things than strolling down Champs Elysees with a pretty lass on my arm.”

“So you didn’t like it?”

“I didn’t think about that. Suppose I was too busy being angry at it.”

“You were angry at Paris?”

“Aye. It’s just… You do the same bloody things. Everyone does the exact same things, walks where billions of people have walked before and asks questions that were asked yesterday and will be asked tomorrow and ‘ooh’s and ‘aah’s at things that are probably bloody tired of people ooh-ing and aah-ing at them and wish someone would just scoff and turn their back instead…”

“But…”

“Hah… _but_ they see it differently. The people who don’t see it at all. The ‘romance’, ‘love in the air’… ‘magic’. Whatever it is. Some just don’t see it. And some do and are satisfied to just admire it, sip a little of it along with their morning espresso. And, of course, some see it and embrace it and bask in it and share it with… you know. And then… some see it, and know it, and want it… and then it’s not time.”

“… and that makes you angry?”

“No. You get angry because you don’t know if the time has passed or hasn’t come yet.”

///

“I ran after you.”

“What?“

“When you were leaving.”

“You-“

“I wasn’t trying to stop you.”

“…”

“I wanted to come with you.”

“I offered-“

“I know. It was… kinda last minute. Or, you know, a minute too late.”

“Why didn’t you call?”

“I don’t… I don’t know… Realized how ridiculous it was when I got there and you’d already gone, I guess.”

“I waited till the very last sec-“

“I know. Can we just not talk about it?”

“Emma-“

“Please? Talking about is just… it’s not gonna change anything.”

“Yeah, but-“

“Tell me about India. I cannot even imagine that.”

“… OK.”

///

“So did you ever go?”

“Where?”

“Home.”

“You mean-“

“Ireland.”

“Ah.”

“Did you?”

“Yeah.”

“And?”

“Ireland is… you know that whole thing about the magic in France, in Paris. Maybe that’s true. But it’s the… the pink sort of magic. You know? The puff of pink or purple smoke?”

“Very Disney.”

“ _Very_ Disney. Ireland is not like that. Ireland is the real magic. The pure and powerful and old magic. And you don’t need anything to feel like you belong there. It just welcomes you no matter who you are or what you’ve done or been through. And it doesn’t care what you are looking for either. Adventure or peace or love or a forgetting potion-“

“Is that a code name for whisky?”

“Hush, Swan.”

“Lips. Sealed.”

“It just gives you life. No matter what. It has so much _life._ And then you think about what it has been through. And you realize… it doesn’t matter what you’ve been through. You still have so much life inside you as well.”

“So you did feel at home.”

“I felt alive. And I realized you could start a journey at home. _Every_ journey starts from home. And it ends there. And sometimes that’s the same place and sometimes it’s not and sometimes it’s…”

“What?”

“It’s you.”

“Me?”

“You as in you carry that feeling of home inside you.”

“Oh.”

“And you realize some places make it flare up. Ireland did that for me. Storybrooke always will, I guess.”

“Well… I’m glad.”

“You do that.”

“…”

“You as in _you_ , Emma Swan.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“So you did come home for Christmas.”

“I came to you.”

///

It’s December and Emma has never seen so much snow. And yet the sky is clear, benevolently bestowing them with some extra Christmas cheer rather than throwing fits of rage. But, to be honest, she doesn’t spend that much time gazing at the sky.

She is too busy memorizing the way the snowflakes cling to Killian’s eyelashes, the way his nose turns progressively redder with every corner they turn, the way the Christmas lights play over his tanned skin. The way his hand squeezes hers. Like he never plans on going anywhere without her ever again.


	21. It All Went Downhill From Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Character A is pretending to be their friend’s lover for the sake of the friend’s family. Character B is said friend’s sibling.

She watches Killian Jones storm out of his own house and wonders when exactly this whole weekend went so horribly wrong. A few instances come to mind.

_Possible It-all-went-downhill-from-here moment #1_

She bumps into him and almost covers his shirt in mulled wine. She has _not_ been hanging around the kitchen’s doorway, with its fake-as-can-be mistletoe, scotched-taped by someone, who, if Emma has to guess, was operating with one hand. She is not that smitten, thank you very much. But the fact remains that when she looks up and it is Killian who almost got a first degree burn as a Christmas present, Emma doesn’t rush off.

She hesitates. She lingers. Probably seeming distracted to everyone else and completely obvious to herself. She waits and waits and starts wondering if she should storm off in a huff or just grab him by the lapels and snog him senseless, as his brother would put it.

Killian’s chuckle is only a little forced and he scratches behind his ear for just a second and then makes the decision for her. He takes her hand and lifts it to his lips. She barely feels the brush of his mouth but his breath is warm and heavy on her skin and Emma swears a proper kiss would’ve been less sensual. She certainly hasn’t had one she enjoyed as much as this.

///

No, as nice as it is to relive that one, she should go further back.

_Possible It-all-went-downhill-from-here moment #2_

She almost missed it, busy as she is with staring at Killian Jones catching every popcorn Robin’s kid throws at him. With his mouth.

There are certain things that should not be attractive and acting like a 5-year-old, in the company of an actual 5-year-old, should be one of them. But when Killian catches her staring and grins proudly (he did catch every single one), she quickly averts her eyes. And that’s when she sees it.

Elsa is most definitely not gonna make the top of that tree, no matter how much she frowns and huffs at it. Emma laughs quietly at her for using her people tactics on a dead plant and is just about to go save said plant from being toppled over when she sees Liam come up behind her roommate. She watches Elsa jump when his hands come to rest on her hips and almost hears her indignant yelp when he lifts her up without much preamble.

Emma wants to laugh again but then she catches Killian’s frown that melts into concern when he meets her eyes and all she wants is to scream in frustration.

///

_Possible It-all-went-downhill-from-here moment #3_

Elsa barges into Killian Jones’s house, which is in the process of being decorated and over-decorated by about a dozen people. This country, these airlines, these unprofessional people, her own failure to predict a freaking snowstorm and some more are the topics Elsa tackles before having even unwound her scarf, hair covered in snowflakes but her cheeks not even tinged and her lips set in a scowl that Emma calculated will need at least three glasses of wine to soften.

Whiles she’s at it, she also calculates that Liam’s eyes have grown about three times their usual size.

///

_Possible It-all-went-downhill-from-here moment #4_

At Liam’s fourth knock the door flies open. The man behind it is panting like he’s just ran a marathon, he has a kid cradled in his right arm and a plastic hook with a red bow on it at the end of his left one. His cheeks are red and his eyes so damn blue. His laughter spills from the house and fills the frigid air with the closest thing to physical joy Emma has ever encountered.

“Liam! About bloody time!”

He reaches to pulls the other man into a hug but then realizes his arms are occupied and laughs again.

“Roland found me the most perfect present, don’t you think?”

Liam laughs and his brother’s gaze moves to her and Emma reminds herself to close her damn mouth.

///

_Possible It-all-went-downhill-from-here moment #5_

“Shit! Liam, turn around!”

“What? You already said ‘yes’! No takebacks, Emma!”

“Ugh, stop being 12 for a second and turn around. Elsa’s flight was cancelled and she left her key with me.”

“Well, what are you two going do, if I take you back?”

“What kinda question is that, you perv?”

“Keep your knickers on, lass. I’m just saying there’s nothing to go back to. Just tell her to come to Killian’s as well.”

“Oh, does she get to play your girlfriend too?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m sure your friend is much more sensible than you and doesn’t need an excuse to join a Christmas party.”

///

Yeah, alright. It was all her damn fault.

_The It-all-went-downhill-from-RIGHT-here moment #6_

“You didn’t tell me Elsa is going home for the holidays.”

“Well, I didn’t know you were so concerned with the comings and goings of a person you having even met.”

“Emma.”

“Don’t Emma me and don’t point your finger at me with that look of moral judgment.”

“I’m not letting you spend Christmas on your own.”

“Good thing I’m not asking your permission then.”

“Emma-“

“Don’t-“

“You are not staying here. You are coming to my brother’s party.”

“No way.”

“Emma Swan.”

“Liam Jones, I’m not tagging along like the friendless friend.”

“That’s an oxymoron.”

“You’re an oxymoron!”

“And that makes no sense.”

‘You make no sense! I’ve never met your brother and he just came back, I’m sure you have tons of catching up to do and-“

“Precisely. He just came back and he is throwing a bloody party. Everyone wants to see him, trust me with or without you I’m not gonna get Killian to myself tonight.”

“Whatever. I don’t wanna be that person.”

“ _What_ person?”

“The pathetic tag-along person.”

“ _Emma._ ”

“No.”

“Fine, we’ll say you’re my girlfriend.”

“Ew.”

“Oy. I’ll have you know you can do much worse, Emma Swan.”

“I can and I have but that’s like… incest.”

“I have only one moronic sibling far as I know but you sure fit the bill.”

“I’m. not. coming.”

“Look, we’ll say we just started dating so Killian doesn’t get suspicious. We’re not PDA people so that’s covered. And you have an excuse to be there or whatever it is that you require.”

“And then?”

“Then we amicably break up and continue to hang out or you get over yourself and we tell everyone how ridiculous you are.”

///

The thing is, not a single person at the damn party probably thinks she and Liam are dating. She doesn’t think they’ve touched a single time tonight.

But when Killian’s eyes came to rest on her in his doorway and the million dollar question ‘and you are?’ came with a cute head tilt and a somewhat confused look, as if he was trying to place her (because he probably didn’t expect random strangers knocking on his door), Emma just didn’t feel like going for ‘your stupid brother’s sad friend who has nowhere to go so decided to crash your party’. So she sent Liam a half-helpless, half-threatening look and watched him roll his eyes and smoothly half-lie with ‘my date’.

The thing is, not a single person at the damn party probably finds issue with Liam and Elsa having a deep discussion by the gingerbread village that ends with the blonde grabbing the older Jones, much in the same way that Emma was daydreaming of grabbing the younger one not even an hour ago, and smashing her lips against his.

Not a single person except Killian. Who is currently storming out of his own house.

“Jones, wait!”

She groans and runs after him, only grabbing her scarf off the top of the coat rack to make hypothermia’s job at least a little bit harder.

“Killian!”

He whirls around, the cloud of his breath obscuring his face for a second. It is freaking freezing, overambitious and oversized snowflakes coming down all around them, and Emma sees his eyes widen as he catches sight of her.

“Bloody hell, Swan!”

He has his coat off and around her before she has even managed to catch her breath.

“This wasn’t what it looked like,” she plunges right in as her hands grab the lapels and tug his coat around her without too much prompting.

“It looked like you need better friends and my brother needs a reminder of what good form is.”

“You looking for that in the snow or..?”

He chuckles at that to her great pleasure, even if it’s gruff and kinda confused. She sure doesn’t look like a slighted woman.

“I decided to cool off before I give him a good talking to. He’s my older brother and-“

“And you don’t need to give him any talkings.”

Killian’s eyebrows jumps up and she sees a shiver run through him and feels her own teeth coming together forcefully.

And just on the off chance that she is about to be told off, Emma decides to avoid the audience for a bit longer and instead moves closer, putting her hands on his forearms. Killian’s brows furrow in confusion.

“Emma, if this is your idea of getting back at Liam, I’m not go-“

“God, no,” she scowls and squeezes his arms to get his eyes to focus on her again. “I don’t have anything to get back at him for. Honestly, I think I’m gonna enjoy seeing him and Elsa butt heads. It’s a toss whether they’ll make each other more bearable or even less so.”

“Lass, I have to say, I understand nothing. You’re… you’re not upset about this? Aren’t you and Liam-“

“No, no, we’re not anything. I mean, yes, in the last year he’s probably become my best friend and only I know exactly how much he has been missing you but…”

Killian’s smile fights its way through his bewilderment at that and Emma wants to curse herself for creating any drama between those two.

“We’re not dating. Never have, never will.”

“Then why did you lie to me?” he shakes his head, more sad than judgmental, which is what really gets to her probably.

So she just shrugs and looks away. That lasts for a solid five seconds, until she feels his arm slip around her waist to draw her closer and she reaches to hold his coat in place around them and talks herself into looking at him as well.

“I’m kinda done being the charity case wherever I go,”

It manages to come out somewhat defiant, no matter how sheepish she is.

Killian tilts his head to the side, much like he did the first time, considering her again, and she thinks maybe he wasn’t _trying_ to place her before. Maybe he really did.

“So you pretended to be my brother’s girl?”

A nod.

“But then he hit it off with your friend?”

“Roommate. We’re… Elsa takes her time to warm up to people, your brother excluded apparently. And I’ve been told I’m quite prickly. But, yeah, we’re getting there. I think.”

“Prickly,” he says the words as if he’s testing it out. “No, I think not. Perhaps a bit chilly though.”

Her body shivers in response and Killian steers them around and back towards the house with a laugh. He stops her at the top porch step though.

“Just…” he pulls back with a teasing grin and Emma feels the cold rush back in, tightening her arms around herself. “Let me make sure I have this right before I allow you into my house again.”

Emma grunts in impatience, jumping a couple of times in place to keep herself warm, which only makes the bastard grin harder.

“No, I’m _not_ dating your brother.”

“And anyone in general?”

Emma takes her time with that one, watching him swallow, the teasing look slowly morphing into something more sincere and almost apprehensive. She sees her chance and she takes it.

“No, I’m dating no one in general or no Jones in particular.”

He picks up her queue with a delighted grin and two steps into her personal space.

“Would you like to rectify that?”

He glances up and this time when she catches sight of a sloppily taped mistletoe, Emma doesn’t hesitate. But she does linger.

 


	22. The Ugly Way To You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Character A loses a bet and has to wear a different ugly Christmas sweater every day till Christmas. Character B works at a clothes store.

There’s so so much poisonous green here, hues of red and purple that absolutely do not go together yet here they are as well, shades of orange and yellow that make him almost physically sick. There’s so much glitter embedded in his bloody carpet Killian’s sure he’ll never be rid of it, more snowmen and reindeer than he has ever had in his apartment at any given time.

Some of them feel worse than wrapping himself in tinfoil, most of them shine in truly unholy ways, all of them take so much bloody space, what with the antlers sticking out and the fluffy carrot noses and the damn bulbs. By this point Santa’s image and the Devil’s are completely interchangeable in his mind.

Killian stands in front of the 23 beyond-ugly, beyond-ridiculous, beyond-overprized, Christmas sweaters, spread out on his bed, and he tries to convince himself he absolutely does _not_ need another one.

No, he is not addicted. Not even a little bit. He plans on donating all of these as soon as Christmas has passed. He is also, technically speaking, not obliged to keep purchasing them.

As far as _the bet_ went, the conditions very clearly stated that he was to keep wearing a different one all the way till Christmas unless someone else managed to make more of a fool of themselves at the annual Holiday Reading Sessions at the local library. And Will, absolute goner that he has been from the moment he met the librarian in change of the whole shindig, has managed to surpass Killian’s Captain Hook impersonation by miles and miles of ridiculous and 100-sit-ups-worth-of-abdominal-pain hilarious.

So, technically speaking, for the last week Killian wasn’t supposed to keep accumulating ugly sweaters he will probably never wear. Realistically, Killian has been no less of a goner, and in consequence – no less of a moron, than Will from the moment he met the blond shop assistant in the store that must have the largest collection of Christmas sweaters anywhere.

It’s not that she has been particularly welcoming. She was pleasant enough the first time. Fairly confused the second one. Downright incredulous the third. Almost murderous on his fourth visit and firmly set in her belief that he was either pranking her or intended on return all of the monstrosities after making her dig them up for him. Then the amusement at his predicament kept her going till the 10th one. Upon the 11th Rudolph-infested piece of clothing he was pretty sure she started doubting his sanity. She seemed quite frustrated the 12th time he saw her. Tired as only a person working in retail during the holiday season can be on the 13th. Wary, if appreciative, when he showed up for the 14th crime against fashion with two hot chocolates. Perplexingly nervous but also unusually cheerful on the 15th. Somewhat irritated, yet gracing him with the occasional almost-apologetic smile, on his 16th trip. Kind but somewhat distant, more contemplative than anyone should be while Frosty the Snowman is blaring all around them the next two times he saw her. More beautiful and flustered than ever the 19th time he stepped into the shop just when she was hanging stars and mistletoe from the ceiling. Jiggery at best and snappy at worst on their 20th anniversary, as he named it without feeling creepy at all, if one must know. Unusually chatty on the 21st and 22nd of December. And, finally, the day before Christmas Eve, she looked undeniably worried and almost mad about something.

So here Killian is, a man with 23 horrendous Christmas sweaters, 7 of which he has only worn for two minutes before buying them, all of which he will probably never put on again. And he is considering going out into what is undoubtedly what inspired the line ‘the weather outside is frightful’, on bloody Christmas Eve, just so he can buy another piece of clothing he will never wear.

Or, if we are to be honest, just so he can see a pair of bright jade eyes, and a flash of gold and a reluctant but genuine smile that has stopped his breath on more than one occasion.

Bloody hell… what is he to do with 24 of those things.

///

He walks into the predictably deserted store. Few people are so deep into the procrastination hell that they need to shop on Christmas Eve. And the ones that are most definitely look for an easier and speedier option than clothes.

Which is why Killian has no difficulty spotting one Emma Swan, all on her lonesome, next to one of the painfully fake white Christmas trees in the store, bouncing adorably to Shake Up Christmas and pulling on his damn heart strings and even the springs of Christmas cheer inside him. It’s also why he has no trouble seeing the moment she catches sight of him and the deer in the headlights (or is it reindeer in the headlights in December?) look on her face and flash of what he can only describe as a guilty cringe.

Killian falters in his step and for the first time today thinks this might not have been a good idea because of more than the growing pile of sweaters in his bedroom.

Weird, maybe-stalker-but-maybe-just- _really­-_ weird, ugly sweaters guy might have been tolerated throughout the Christmas month but seeing him again on Christmas Eve is probably not all she wished for.

He feels equal parts ridiculous and embarrassed over how much seeing her is pretty much all _he_ wished for.

He sees her approaching him and realizes he has been standing there like an equally bewildered reindeer.

“Let me guess,” she says with a somewhat forced, almost sad, grin. “One ugly Christmas sweater pronto?”

“No need to rush, lass, I have all night.”

Just when he thought he couldn’t come out more bloody pathetic.

“Well, I-“ she sighs this deep thing that seems to have been building inside her all day. “I’m sorry to disappoint you but we don’t have any more.”

“Oh.”

She is a little shorter than him and looking up with a sort of trepidation, appearing vulnerable probably for the first time since he met her. Which, Killian needs to remind himself, really wasn’t that long ago. But sharing holiday joy, and probably just as much (probably _more_ ) holiday frustration, with someone on a daily basis, is an oddly bonding experience. At least for him it has been. But now she is looking at him like she expects him to maybe turn into a bitchy customer and give her grief over the lack of more than two dozens of different Christmas deprivations, and all he wants is to give her a hug and maybe ask her what she’s doing tomorrow.

Both things which are most definitely not happening.

“Right,” he feels himself lift his hand towards his ear and scowls at himself. “Well, I must thank you for keeping me so well-supplied this long.”

He, honestly, doesn’t remember being so awkward around a woman since he was a bloody teenager. But Killian reminds himself he is not one anymore, gathers all his courage and reaches for the little box in his coat pocket.

“So,” he extends his hand, palm up, uncomfortable shrug and embarrassed smile and all. “Thank you. And… Happy Holidays.”

Her mouth falls into an adorable little semi-o and she reaches for the box, picking it carefully as if she thinks it might break. Or maybe explode in her face. He is still not sure exactly how psycho he has come across as.

Regardless, Killian will rather save them both the awkward thanks. It’s just a swan ornament anyway. One that he had to try 9 bloody shops before finding but just an ornament all the same.

So he gives her a small nod, a smaller yet smile and turns on his heel with what may or may not have been something resembling a bow to finish it all off. Thinks maybe he shouldn’t exit his home and interact with any humans the next few days and heads for the door.

 _Shake Up Christmas_ surprisingly switches to Lily Allen’s _Somewhere Only We Know_ and he starts humming despite himself.

“Yo, Jones!”

He is just about to turn around when she runs in front of him, box still in her hand and her face set in something very much like determination.

“You really think we have 23 different kinds of ugly Christmas sweaters?”

“I- well, um, I suppose you’re very well-stocked.”

“We’re not though. I think no one is _that_ well-stocked.”

“I’m not sure I understand, lass.”

“We’ve never had 23 different kinds of ugly Christmas sweaters.”

“Then how-“

“We ran out a week ago.”

“But… I have been buying them. _You_ have been selling them to me.”

“Yeah, well…” she hesitates for a second, her free hand going into her back pocket and her eyes straying from his for a second before _she_ seems to remind herself that she’s not an awkward teenager anymore. “I might have scoured every clothes shop that sells those monstrosities in the last week. I officially ran out of options today. Obviously.”

He… has never been so confused in his life.

“Lass, you really didn’t have to go to all that trouble. You could’ve sent me somewhere else to look for them on my own.”

He keeps it to himself that he would’ve just quit buying them, if it wasn’t for her selling them. Emma huffs and looks at him as if he’s being particularly thick.

“Well, I didn’t want you to now, did I? I wanted you to keep coming.”

She shrugs and Killian doesn’t even know, if he would’ve been able to assimilate what she is saying but _that_ shrug. It is the exact amount of embarrassed and hopelessly awkward and stupidly hopeful that his was just a moment ago. Which happens to be the perfect amount.

“I was absolved of purchasing and wearing those abominations a week ago.”

“Oh.”

Her eyes widen a little. Then narrow suspiciously.

“Just so we’re clear, you kept buying them anyway because of…”

“You.”

“Oh, good.”

She grabs him by what happens to be the least ugly sweater she has sold him in the last 24 days and pulls him to her, lips cheery-flavoured and tongue insistent and her cheeky grin squished into his dopey one.

And, damn it all, if he doesn’t keep every one of the ugly bastards.


	23. The Jolly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Character owns a struggling toy store. Character B is looking for a Christmas present.

It is quite simply her favourite place in New York. And, if she has to be painfully (and embarrassingly) honest with herself, it’s probably the single place where she has felt at home.

There’s just something special about _The Jolly Toy Store_. No, that’s a gross understatement. There are _so many_ special things about it that Emma doesn’t know where to start.

Perhaps the large windows which display new wildly imaginative (on occasion, when David has talked Killian into helping out, wildly _ridiculous_ ) arrangements every week. Maybe the impossibly old, decadent-looking shelf of hand-crafted wooden toys. Maybe the toy trains winding their way around every available surface. Maybe the twinkling lights that are everywhere at all times and yet somehow seem to multiple the second December knocks on the door. Maybe the biggest, heaviest and most homey bookshelf she has ever seen that covers the left wall. Maybe the record player in the corner, with the records of Christmas stories, with the elegant music notes curving over the wall above and the numerous smaller ones drawn much less skillfully and in much less aesthetic colours underneath, but somehow fitting in perfectly. Maybe the fireplace in the other corner, with the enormous pillows surrounding it and the numerous editions of _A Christmas Carol_ left open all around. Maybe the unbelievably charming owner with the sparkling blue eyes and booming laugh, the pendants hanging low on his neck and his endless collection of striped socks and fairytale-inspired puns, and his pet names and the way he drops down to one knee in front of at least 30 kids a day, the way he tucks her hair behind her ear and pushes up her glasses when she’s too deep into a book to do it herself.

Emma really can’t pick a favourite. Or so she tells herself most of the time.

She pushes the heavy door and is greeted with the buzz of the holiday season. Only she quite likes the buzz in here, it’s more of a warm tinkle really, what with the cheesy balanced with non-mainstream selection of Christmas songs, the rhythmic rolling of the biggest toy train that travels the length of the window display, the occasional crack from the fireplace and the cheerful cries of kids that must have spotted just what they were looking for.

She is not ashamed to admit that she stops in the doorway to take it all in for a solid minute, sighs happily, as she brushes the snow off the front of her coat and takes off her beanie.

She waves in response to Ruby’s grin from behind the register and heads for the office in the back. Comfortable and familiar enough with the place to not attract any confused looks.

That’s where she finds the owner of _The Jolly_. One Killian Jones. As handsome and full of energy as ever, pacing up and down his tiny office, but much less cheerful than Emma can ever remember seeing him.

“No, Gold, I know,” he sighs into his phone, cradling it between his head and shoulder just so he can free his hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. “But can’t we wait for after the holidays to-… I see. Surprising you don’t celebrate.”

She watches him roll his eyes and then spot her in the doorway, his face startled for a second before he grins at her, the bright and joyful one she knows.

One might wonder what her deal with Killian Jones is. And Emma can’t say she has a ready answer but she does have something of an inkling. You know how when there’s some treat you really _really_ love, you kinda wanna have it all the time? But then you try to pace yourself ‘cause you’re afraid you’ll overdo it and get tired of it? It’s kinda like that. Except Killian is a living, breathing human and not a salty caramel mousse so she’s more afraid of him getting sick of her than the other way around.

For the last two years, Killian Jones and his toy shop have been a treat that Emma allows herself on holidays and the occasional weekend after an overwhelmingly rough week. But she has, honest to Santa, tried not to overdo it. She really has.

The fact that there are only so many reasons for a 28-year-old to hang out in a toy store might be a factor as well.

Killian gives her a little wave and a sheepish smile but firmly shakes his head when she makes a motion to leave him to his business.

“Yes, I’m well aware how much the rent will increase from next year,” he grits out, turning a bit away from her, and it is the closest thing to anger she has heard from Killian Jones, child (and all human and animal species alike, to be fair) whisperer extraordinaire.

It probably shouldn’t send the delicious shiver it does up her spine but what can you do.

“I’ve got January covered so perhaps we can talk about it at length _next year_.”

His voice brooks no argument and sure enough, Killian finally gets to hang up in the next second. And when he turns to her he is all effortless cheer and smooth accent once again.

“What brings you to us during the most wonderful time of the year, Swan?”

“A delightful almost one-year-old whose mother and father have probably gotten him everything he could ever want or need already.”

“Ah, the posterity of Snow White and her Prince Charming themselves.”

Killian Jones has a thing about fairytales. Killian Jones has a thing about nicknaming his regular customers after fairytale characters. Emma Swan does not find it endearing. She does not.

“The one and only.”

“Well, shall we then,” he gestures at the door with his hook (Killian Jones is no hypocrite and has most certainly not excluded himself from the whole fairytale madness). “I find almost one-year-olds particularly challenging to shop for so we’d better get started.”

She chuckles and takes her sweet time turning around so by the time she heads for the door, he’s right behind her and she feels his hand at the small of her back.

“Gold giving you trouble again?”

“Ah, you know every good tale needs an evil old warlock or some such.”

She full on laughs at that one, timing it perfectly with their re-entering of the store and receiving a predictable eyebrow wiggle from Ruby.

“And have you already planned a valiant counter-attack?”

“Love, you must have me confused with our Prince Charming. _I_ have much more dastardly ideas swirling in my head.”

“Terrifying.”

“Just you wait and see.”

She spends a solid hour in the store, shopping, if you ask her, procuring the most perfect present for the most perfect little boy, if you ask Killian, flirting shamelessly, if you ask Ruby.

They never ask Ruby (but then again she doesn’t wait to be asked).

///

She is back inside _The Jolly_ not three days later, a day before Christmas Eve.

She has her reasons though. Well, if you call bringing Killian Jones a hot chocolate at 11pm, an hour after closing time, a reason. Which she does. So there’s that.

She finds him in front of the fireplace, sitting on the floor and leaning against the armchair behind him. His shoes are off, those damn socks are black and purple this time, and his hook has gone with the last customer. The light from the flames is doing wonders for his cheekbones but his brows are pinched together and he has a frankly horrifying amount of papers strewn around him on the floor instead of the Christmas books of before.  

For a second she feels like she has just seen Santa with his beard and suit off.

“You should really start locking the door after closing time.”

She approaches him from behind and dangles the hot cocoa over his shoulder, watches the tired smile tease the corners of his mouth and thinks she has wanted few things in life more than to run her hand through his hair right now.

His chuckle is throaty and exhausted.

“Not much to steal here anyway, Swan.”

She plops down beside him, her knee nudging his thigh, thinks ‘go big or go home’ has a certain appeal to it and drops her chin to his shoulder.

“I don’t know. There’s this one record I’ve been dying to get my hands on.”

This time his laugh is a little lighter and he takes a sip of the cocoa, humming in appreciation.

“I’ll give it to you, love, you know your hot beverages.”

She snorts and tips her chin down, digging her nose into his shoulder.

“Cinnamon is the answer to everything.”

“So you’ve told me,” he says on a heavy sigh.

“Want me to sprinkle some on that?” she waves towards the multitude of documents, pulling a face he can’t really see.

“Afraid _that_ is beyond the powers even of cinnamon.”

He puts down his takeaway cup, puts the cap of his pen in his mouth and caps it before throwing it on the pile in obviously disgust.

“Not beyond yours, I hope.”

She means for it come out as a joke but her voice shakes a little at the very thought of losing _The Jolly._ Killian turns his head so his cheek brushes hers and she can catch the ghost of his grin.

“Fear not, love. Gold and I have been at each other’s throats for a long time now. He hasn’t gotten the upper hand yet.”

It’s flippant but she feels the strength behind it, believes him without needing much proof.

“Enough of this,” he kicks at the papers with those ridiculous black and purple socks and reaches behind to take her hand. “Come on. Let me show you something.”

He gets up and pulls her along. She lets herself be guided through the store, catches the soft tunes floating on the warm air. There’s a table lamp by the armchair but the rest of the store is only lit by twinkling lights and the glow of the fireplace. The numerous shelves create narrow passages and turns and everything seems even more magical than usual.

It’s because she knows that Killian didn’t get to have this as a kid either, that she lets the child-like glee play over her face without a second thought. She hums and swings their hands between them, much to his amusement. She lets her heart be light.

They come to a stop before the shelf with wooden toys and Killian lets go of her to reach behind his ear, his chuckle a tad nervous.

“See something new?”

Emma lets her eyes roam over the multitude of toys. The dwarves, sprawled out in more and more hilarious poses, the snowmen, the beautifully realistic Santas and the completely ridiculous ones, the Christmas trees, the spreading oaks and intricate flowers, the exquisite sleights, the squirrels and bears, the little kittens, the pair of doves. The swan in the middle.

“Did you…” she turns wide eyes at Killian, knowing he rarely does new ones himself anymore because it takes him ages to execute the perfection he desires with one hand.

“Mhm,” he hums and steps closer, his chest bumping her shoulder blade. “Started it in November.”

“You-“ she looks back at the swan and reaches out to run one finger over it’s perfectly curved back. “It’s gorgeous.”

He sighs happily behind her and his arms come around her waist.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Anything, Swan?”

“Why don’t I have a fairytale nickname?” she looks back and scrunches her nose at him in mock-offense. “I mean, I think the Swan Princess would be pretty obvious. And then I played Rapunzel when we did the reading in September…”

“Are you feeling neglected, love?”

“No, I just… I’ve always wondered why.”

She feels his right hand press into her hip and lets him guide her around so they are facing each other. She watches a pair of blue twinkly light play over his forehead with a grin and brings her arms around his neck, raising a questioning and impatient eyebrow.

“It’s because you are already a fairytale all on your own.”

His eyes are impossibly soft but his face is completely serious and Emma sighs and feels herself melt a little more in his hold.

“Maybe,” she says with a tentative grin. “But it’s because this place showed me the magic.”

“The place, huh?”

“The owner is tolerable as well, I guess.”

Killian’s smile starts to spread but then he gets this far away look.

“Killian, is everything alright?”

“Yeah, I just… ‘owner’ has a good ring to it.”

She lifts a questioning eyebrow and he grins down at her wickedly.

“Maybe I can quit this strife with Gold. Maybe I can press him into selling me the place altogether?”

“Can you?”

“I don’t know, Swan,” he bends down to bump her nose with hers. “But I’ve been told miracles happen around this time of year.”

///

Emma has been saving every penny from the moment she started earning any. And she’s not a fan of resolutions but she decides maybe a little risk, a new adventure, can’t hurt. It’s how fairytales start, right?

One of the first things Emma Swan does in the new year is sign the papers that officially declare her and Killian owners of the venue where _The Jolly Toy Store_ is currently docked. And will probably be for many more Christmases to come.

And she’s perfectly content with calling it the only place she has ever felt at home. Because it is.


	24. Have Yourself A Merry Little...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Character A doesn’t feel the Christmas spirit but Character B, who lives above them, keeps playing Christmas carols really loud. + Character A overhears Character B’s Christmas wish and decides to fulfill it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has liked, followed and especially to those who have shared their thoughts and feelings with me throughout the series. It has been joyfully stressful writing these daily and I've enjoyed bringing you a bit of holiday spirit so much. 
> 
> Hope you all had a wonderful Christmas and wishing you a new year filled with laughter, love and fulfilled wishes!

The thing about Christmas is that Emma likes it quiet.

As a kid, one that still believed in miracles and Santa and wishing on stars, Emma passed through too many families on Christmas Eve. And every time she walked through a new door she thought herself beyond lucky to be in an actual _home_ around the holidays, bright-eyed and hopeful and excited and thinking, _wishing_ , maybe this time…

And then, without fail, the dream dissolved, twisted and turned into this absolute mess of yelling over Christmas songs. Plates clattering and people arguing. Parents fighting over the smallest thing, scolding children, ordering them about. The atmosphere that was meant to be warm and joyful, nothing but charged with tension.

And then, without fail, she ended up with her nose pressed against a cold window, desperately searching for the brightest star on which to wish herself away. Yet it never worked. Not until she turned 23 and went and did it herself, actually managed to rent a place just her own and found out that peace and quiet were possible.

But not here apparently. Ever since she moved to New York in general and to this one apartment in particular, Emma Swan has dreaded the very likely possibility of having to kiss her quiet Christmases goodbye. Her upstairs neighbour just won’t have it.

Killian Jones plays his music just loud enough for her to know he is playing some but not loud enough for her to feel justified in complaining. The few occasions on which their shower times have overlapped, she found out that he sings in the shower as well. And he might be good but if she wanted a private concert in the bathroom… well, she doesn’t, okay?

Emma swears even his steps are fucking loud.

And if you think she wouldn’t have stormed upstairs and given him a piece of her mind for a lot less, think again. Only… he is so damn _nice_.

He is the only person that offers to help her with her boxes when she moves in, despite the fact that he is operating with only one hand. He is the only person who doesn’t complain about her late hours because apparently her bug is really loud and so is the elevator and so is her shower in the middle of the night.

He always breaks into a smile or rather a gleeful grin when he sees her and fires some absolutely ridiculous pickup line for her to roll her eyes at. At first she was on her guard, thinking in a month or so he’ll move on to more direct and harder to deflect approaches. But she was proven wrong. Killian Jones has kept up his non-stop flirting but never made an actual move.

Half the time she thinks he isn’t actually interested, half the time she thinks he believes she isn’t. Not that it matters, because Emma _isn’t_ interested. Not in Killian, per say, but in relationships in general.

But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t appreciate the way he holds the door for a solid minute when he sees her coming with her arms laden with groceries or the way he brushes the snow off her bug as well when he does his own car. Or that when he got more boxes of Chinese than he had actually ordered, he dropped some at her place without even trying to invite himself in.

So Emma decides to be nice back in the only way she can. By not being mean. But that sure was a lot easier before he started blasting Christmas carols.

Killian Jones has been testing the limits of her patience for the last week. And she is hardly surprised when it snaps one morning, a week before Christmas, after she wakes up from a dream about deranged snowmen chasing after her, only to hear all about the plight of Rudolph.

She storms up the stairs in her pjs, hair a mess atop her head, face unwashed, teeth unbrushed, and tolerance for Killian’s holiday cheer all maxed out.

She bangs on his door and makes a point of not doing it to the rhythm of the damn song.

Killian answers on the fifth knock, more put together than he has any right to be at 8am on a Sunday. Emma tries her best to glare away his surprised smile. She is not backing down, she is not letting him melt her irritation. She dreamt about a psychopathic Frosty for fuck’s sake!

“Morning, Swan! What can I-“

“The carols need to stop,” she says before he has a chance to be all pleasant and stuff.

“Oh,” his smile falters and Emma grits her teeth to keep from taking it back. “I see. Um… well, I’ll try to keep it down then.”

“It’s just that…”her shoulders drop and she groans. “I’m literally dreaming about being murdered by a gang of snowmen and-”

“It’s fine, Swan. I got. I’ll tone down the Christmas cheer.”

He says ‘cheer’ a little bitterly and Emma is just toying with the idea of probing further when-

“If there’s nothing else…”

“Oh, yeah, sorry. I’m just-“ she waves towards the stairs. “Thanks for… Thanks.”

“Sure thing.”

Jones gives her a brisk nod and closes his door and it’s probably the rudest he has ever been to her.

///

The worst part? She enjoys the quiet for barely a day, after which the silence from upstairs is nothing but a reminder of what a Grinch she is.

But Emma’s conscience has nothing on her pride and she simply finds herself incapable of taking the stairs and knocking on that damn door again and apologizing and telling Killian maybe a little extra sappy tunes never hurt anyone.

So she forms a vague plan to make it up to him in some way that doesn’t involve an actual apology. Or even a face-to-face interaction, preferably. Send him a pizza, leave a hot cocoa and Christmas cookies at his door, clean the snow off his car for the rest of the season. It all seems either too impersonal or like something he might end up stepping on.

So good intensions is all she placates herself with whenever the damn peace and quiet suddenly starts feeling cold and empty. Until the Friday before Christmas when she exits the lift just to see Killian Jones, crouching down in front of a kid that she thinks lives with his dad on the first floor.

“So what did you wish for this Christmas, lad?”

Emma thinks she would’ve smiled awkwardly and waved instead of stopping to ask about present preferences. But then again she is the person who tells people to dial down on the holiday joy so what else is new.

The unoriginal yelp that sounds like ‘a bike’ makes Emma smile despite herself. And then-

“How about you?”

“Me?”

Killian sounds genuinely stumped by the question but Emma’s ears perk up in anticipation. She’s not getting the guy a freaking boat or Ferrari or something but maybe she can get a clue how-

“I just wanna have someone to toast it with, I guess.”

He makes it sound light enough for the sake of the kid but Emma picks out the loneliness underneath it with alarmingly little effort.

Well… At least it’s not a boat.

///

If this was a movie, or if Emma was a ‘grand gesture’ kinda person, if she at least had the confidence that her ‘plan’ would be amicably received, she might have done this properly. Put her bailbonds skills to festive use and found out which neighbours Killian likes, where he works and who he hangs out with, invited them all to her apartment,  prepared cocktails and bought cookies and thrown a proper Christmas party for the guy who has treated her better than anyone she can remember (and how sad does that make her life?)

But then again, maybe she doesn’t deserve people doing nice things for her since what she is currently going for is a paper bag with all the ingredients needed to make hot cocoa from scratch and a bottle of the best rum she could find on Christmas Day.

She is pretty confident about the rum. She has met him in the supermarket enough times to know Killian Jones drinks rum, eats a ridiculous amount of grapefruit, buys the really good, really expensive cereal and is apparently addicted to gummy bears.

And, yes, Emma did consider just buying all those things she knows he likes but damn that would’ve been a freaking weird combo.

So she sucks it up, tugs on her not-really-Christmasy-but-the-right-shade-of-red-to-pass-for-it sweater, grabs the paper bag and makes her way upstairs. She knocks and tries not to feel guilty about how tentative the music floating out of the apartment sounds when he opens the door.

Killian’s usual grin starts spreading but halts half way through and he frowns in confusion.

“You cannot possibly hear this downstairs. _I_ can barely-“

“No, no, it’s not the music,” she hastens to reassure him and rocks a couple of times on her heels while he sighs in relief and lifts a questioning eyebrow. “I just… um, well, Merry Christmas.”

His smile is soft if perplexed and he tilts his head to the side, regarding her with interest.

“Happy Christmas, love.”

“I was just wondering, if you are celebrating on your own.”

He stiffens a little at that and Emma rolls her eyes at her own lack of tact. Killian shrugs one shoulder and answers his feet rather than her.

“I’ve always found the concept of ‘celebrating’ by one’s lonesome something of an oxymoron. But, aye, I guess you could say I’m celebrating. I do have Home Alone on,” he concludes with a little laugh.

“Right,” Emma nods, more to herself than him, now for the tough part. “Me too. I mean, I didn’t have anything on but… I thought… you might wanna… you know… company.”

Wow. Apparently she _can_ do worst than she imagined.

Killian furrows his brows in justified confusion.

“Is your TV or internet out? Do you need help…”

“No, no. I just thought… I had too many ingredients for hot cocoa and… Ugh!” she throws her hands in the air, as much as she can while keeping said ingredients under her arm. “I thought you might be not celebrating on your own and I was not celebrating on my own so I figured maybe we can kinda celebrate together.”

She lets out her breath, thinks that came out a lot more aggressive than the occasion called for but at least it’s out.

“You’d like to come in?”

He doesn’t look averse to the idea but he does sound terribly surprised by it.

“If you’d like me to.”

“Of course! I just… I never thought you’d like to be friends.”

Oh. So she was right about him believing her not interested. Emma thinks about it for a second and goes for a shrug, not wanting to commit to an answer.

It’s not that she doesn’t want to be friends with Killian Jones. She’s just not entirely sure she wants to be _just_ friends with Killian Jones.

“I like to think I’m not as prickly as I come across.”

He grins at that and raises a teasing eyebrow that she has trouble reconciling with the hesitant man from moments ago. Then again she also has trouble reconciling what she is doing right now with everything she has come to expect from herself so who is she to judge.

“Then by all means, Swan, be my guest.”

He waves her inside with a semi-bow and offers to take the paper bag from her as soon as she steps through the doorway and Emma thinks this might indeed turn out to be more fun than her peace and quiet.

///

His eyebrow goes higher than she has ever seen it when he opens the paper bag and pulls out the bottle of rum.

“What? It’s after 5pm,” she says defensively.

Killian just chuckles and pulls out everything else, ordering it all on the counter in a way that makes her grin a little, already 80% convinced that he’s a neat freak. The immaculate apartment is kind of a dead giveaway as well.

“I think I get the basic idea of how this is done but I must admit I usually go for the packaged stuff.”

Emma blinks out of her thoughts to see Killian pulling out a saucepan with a questioning eyebrow.

“Oh, sorry! Let me do that,” she jumps from the high stool at the kitchen island.

“I’d love to help, love. I’d just rather leave myself in your experienced hands.”

She thinks he means it innocently enough, doesn’t even accompany it with the usual eyebrow waggle, but her own treacherous mind jumps to less than innocent places.

“Right, let’s do that.”

If she thought getting to work will help matters, she was very very wrong. Watching Killian expertly tear open the wrappers on chocolate bars with his mouth is not exactly steering her in the friendship direction. But they manage to make a mean mug of cocoa. That gets even meaner when Killian adds a hefty doze of rum.

They assemble a far from perfect platter of crackers and different sweets that Killian collects from various cupboards and settle in to shamelessly enjoy Kevin’s misadventures.

Emma hesitates for only a second before lifting her mug to his.

“Merry Christmas.”

Killian gets a look that makes her think he’s likely remembering the wish he shared with Roland but then he shakes his head and clicks his mug against hers with a soft smile.

“Merry Christmas indeed, Swan.”

///

He knows way too many of the lines by heart for someone who doesn’t really celebrate.

And Emma definitely shuffles closer on the couch than someone who showed up to just make friends.

///

They make it through the first two movies before deciding to take a break and search for the only open takeout place in the city. It’s the work of a solid hour, them trading the names of places they usually order from. Emma finds out that Killian knows a lot more about Tai food than anyone should in her opinion. Killian finds out that Emma orders from some places shady enough for him to give her a half-worried, half-offended look.

They find an open Chinese place that makes them both question the wisdom of their decision but then Emma’s stomach rumbles and Killian says to hell with it and dials.

///

He is breaking his fortune cookie open, grumbling about the irony of Christmas messages in Chinese food when Emma bends over his laptop and opens Spotify to turn up the volume on his Christmas playlist.

To his credit, Killian makes no comment. Though the eyebrow and the grin he only somewhat tries to hide speak volumes.

///

When they switch to straight rum and she jumps up to The Pogues’ _Fairytale of New York_ , belting out the lyrics with little to no restraint (and absolutely no rhythm), he can’t hold in his holler of laughter.

And when she tugs on his left wrist to get him to join her, he only hesitates for a second, looking up at her with something scarily intense in his eyes that quickly gives way to almost child-like joy.

///

When she wakes up in his bed the next morning, warm and cozy, and walks out to find a pillow on the couch and Killian humming _Let It Snow_ while frying disgusting amounts of bacon, she doesn’t even feel like pointing out that Christmas songs are not allowed after Christmas.

She rather feels like asking about his plans for New Year’s.

///

At a minute to 12 on the 31st of December she admits she _isn’t_ interested in being friends. She’s interested in quite a bit more.

And at midnight on the 31st of December he responds with a kiss.


	25. New Tales from the New Year

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As promised, a sequel to what seemed to be most people's favourite OS from this series - New Tales from the Old Forest. I bring you New Tales from the New Year.
> 
> Written especially for CS January Joy on tumblr - a truly brilliant project to brighten your January! :))

She programs his number into her phone the second Henry’s door slams behind him. He got an idea on the ride back. He needed to write it down right away. So in the wake of her son’s excited babbling (wasn’t Killian the best? wasn’t he so nice? wasn’t he so funny? wasn’t he so inspiring? wasn’t he so down to earth?) Emma is free to lean against their front door, let out a breath and bang her head against the solid surface behind her.

Yes, as a matter fact, he is so nice, and funny, and inspiring, and down to earth, and gorgeous as all hell. And, yes, Emma is absolutely screwed. She knows it as she takes out the book – the one with those dangerous, tempting numbers inside. She knows it as she drops down on the couch with a disgruntled huff. She knows it as she copies every digit, checking three times that she got it right.

She knows it as she deletes the first of many texts lost into the void of the unsent.

///

His mom has her addictions (hello, bear claws, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, cocoa with cinnamon and Quentin Tarantino) but her phone is not one of them. Unless she is working a case, she never has the device glued to her hand, certainly not when they are spending some ‘quality mother-son time’.

So Henry has trouble connecting her announcement of being free from work for the rest of the year with the way she keeps glancing at her phone. It’s nothing short of glaring, really, even if the glare seems to hold little animosity and a fair share of guilt.

///

Emma doesn’t text Killian Jones after meeting him on the 21st and she doesn’t text him on the 22nd and she blanches at the very thought of calling him. Now the 23rd is slipping from her as well and she is a fucking coward but one with common sense so whatever.

It’s not like this (good lord, _this_ isn’t even a thing, there’s no this or that or anything at all, there’s just her overprotectiveness of her son, resulting in her stalkerish ways, resulting in a ridiculous borderline-creepy crush, resulting in a proper crush fueled by one Killian Jones’s whole… person), it’s not like it could work.

The most it can be, Emma is well-aware despite having been on a strictly fairytales diet for the last week, is a messy and possibly disappointing one night stand that she cannot afford to have around the holidays. She has a son. The whole reason for her predicament, the little shit.

And Killian… Killian will hardly be sticking around, if he is not gone already.

The whole thing is ridiculous and she decides to put it out of her mind, even if she doesn’t have the heart to delete his number just yet.

So when Emma gets the delivery, she is confused at best and a whole lot of suspicious. She tears into the simple brown wrapping with her patent patience. Meaning – none.

Her gasp when she sees the cover of New Tales from the Old Forest VII is so loud she almost ruins what must be a Christmas surprise for Henry. She knows that’s what it is so why is she so bitterly disappointed when the beautiful inscription in Killian Jones’ ridiculously princess-y handwriting is indeed for her son and her son alone?

Henry will be over the moon. So Emma tells herself she is over the moon as well.

And then a thick envelope falls from the back of the heavy leather-bound book, with ‘Emma’ in that same stupid cursive, and she remembers what being over the moon really feels like.

///

Killian hasn’t done the whole ‘balls of paper lying everywhere but in the trashcan’ writer cliché in years. Bloody hell, years. He has been writing for years. He is a successful writer. _He is a bloody bestselling author._ It still blindsides him on occasion.

He doesn’t pay much attention to social media even if he does his best to post something every month or so. A poem. A quote. Things that speak to him and he hopes, he knows (he is slowly but surely beginning to know) speak to others as well.

But he takes special care with his fan mail. The actual mail. Not many people bother with that these days when their idols or current celeb crushes are just a tweet away. Yet more than Killian thought still do. He has a rather steady flow of letters, cards and small packages coming his way every month and he likes to think it is the perfect amount to remind him that people do want to read his words but not so much that he loses his head.

He has lost his head before and he has no interest in doing it again. Yet it seems that his heart is the one in danger now, something he never could have predicted, a plot twist so ingenious he has to tip off his hat to fate. It has certainly bested him.

Much like Emma Swan’s smile has bested him. And the way her eyes flitter away when she is nervous. And the way her hair gets in her eyes. And the way she cradles books ( _his books_ , bloody buggering hell) in her arms. And the way she looks at her son. And her son. He has rarely wanted to see what becomes of someone as much as he wants to see what becomes of Henry. Because he knows it’s going to be grand. And he wants to help it happen, he wants to watch it happen.

He is absolutely screwed. He knows it as he takes his own brand new copy of New Tales from the Old Forest VII off the shelf. He knows it as he lets his pen run with his head and, much more dangerously, with his heart as he dedicates it to the boy whose smile he can still feel tugging up the corners of his own mouth. He knows it as he takes out a stack of papers and his favourite black pen and starts writing to his mother next.

So here he is. Screwed and littering his own house. Because, much as he tries, she refuses to squeeze into the tight corset and twirl at the balls under the gazes of dozens of wish-to-be suitors. Because, much as he tries, he cannot pen anyone smart enough to outsmart her or bright enough to outshine her.

So with one last clumsy ball (truly, crumbling paper into a ball is not nearly as satisfying with one hand and Killian knows it’s a ridiculous thing to miss when he still has trouble with his shoelaces but he _does_ ) he sets all ideas of writing her into a royal world of pomp and glitter aside and pictures the way her green eyes flashed back to him one last time before she led her boy away.

And just like that he leaves the ballrooms and castles far behind and the masts and planks and black sails and vicious storms rise up with a roar. He feels himself nodding along as he adds the Captain before her Swan and biting his lip as he straps the sword to her belt and grinning like the fool he is when he sprays the sea salt on her cheeks.

///

Emma exercises the one virtue she has never possessed and waits. She wraps Henry’s book in the best wrapping paper she has left (and only sneaks a peak of the first page… ok, maybe the first five) and, on a whim, ties her own bulky letter with a bow and puts them both under the tree.

Dinner on Christmas Eve is a quiet but happy affair and as she looks at her son, she knows she will be fine no matter what, long as she has Henry. And yet… she finds it in herself to admit that maybe just because they are good, doesn’t mean they can’t be better. Maybe just because it’s been the two of them for years, doesn’t mean it always has to be.

She bites her lip until it almost bleeds but manages to be the adult, the responsible mother, and hands him one of her own presents to open before bed. No way is he ever falling asleep, if he sees the book. No way is she resisting opening her letter, if she gives him the book.

///

Christmas has never let him down!

Henry knows that his mom is only humouring him when she doesn’t argue with his talk about magic and destiny and True Love but he also knows that there are some things even she doesn’t know. So he humours her in turn and doesn’t try to convince her of the magic that is so obviously everywhere. But on Christmas he doesn’t hold back. And Christmas has always repaid his loyalty but _this year_. This year it outdid itself.

_New Tales from the Old Forest VII_

VII! As in the one that wouldn’t be out for another two months. As in the one no one has seen yet. As in the one he is currently holding in his hands.

The one with Killian Jones’s own handwriting inside it, calling him his 'favourite fan' and 'hopefully future fellow writer' and-

Christmas really outdid itself this year!

///

Emma would’ve thought she couldn’t be more grateful for the absolute joy on her son’s face when he tore through the reindeer to get to what she is sure is his new favourite possession. She would’ve thought that but then she discovers that Henry’s absolute fascination with his book also gives her a reprieve from his admirable, but sometimes rather challenging, perceptiveness.

All she needs is the puppy eyes and a beseeching ‘MOM’ and she waves him off, pardoning him for his desire to spend Christmas Day buried in stories she frankly can’t wait to read herself.

So maybe she has an ulterior motive as well, maybe there are other things she can’t wait to read as well. She thinks she can be forgiven.

Emma scowls at the way her fingers almost tremble as she tears the corner of the letter. She is not fancy enough to have a letter opener (this is the first personal letter she has received since the one that contained nothing but a car key) and obviously not sensible enough to keep it together while just opening a stupid envelope.

The bulk of the thing should’ve given it away, yet she is still surprised, still gasps a little just like she did when she saw the book, when she pulls out the small stack of papers. There are at least twenty pages in her hands and they are all covered from top to bottom in his beautiful scroll.

Emma doesn’t bother hiding in her bedroom, she is too stunned to think about keeping this from her kid, too wrapped up in trying to keep her thoughts from completely running away from her. She shuffles to the armchair, hand clutching the sheets of paper as if they might decide to slip from her fingers and make a run for it, grabs one of the many blankets, takes the couple of steps to the couch, mouth still slightly agape, and plops down in the vacant corner, glancing up to see that she could’ve started setting off fireworks and Henry still wouldn’t have looked up from his book on the other end.

She spares a thought to making herself some hot cocoa but cannot convince herself to set down the pages or risk bringing them anywhere close to the damn surface of her kitchen counter. So she just plunges in.

///

She doesn’t call him on New Year’s and she doesn’t text him.

Because it will be cliché and because he is probably celebrating and because she is too busy watching the fireworks playing over Henry’s wide-eyed, open-mouthed expression.

And yet. It’s only the twelfth minute of 2017 when she thinks about him for the first time this year. And she has a feeling it won’t be the last.

///

She sits down on her worn couch on the 18th, after having put her kid to bed and having done the dishes. After having already put three dirtbags behind bars this year. After having read New Tales from the Old Forest VII and read and re-read and re-read and re-read his short story, _her_ short story, at least a dozen times.

She sits down and prays to every deity, that might not be too hungover post-Christmas and New Year’s to hear her, that she hasn’t missed her chance with what she is afraid might be one of the single most amazingly talented and even more amazingly sweet men on earth.

///

_So how is your new year going so far? – Emma Swan (Henry’s mom, from the signing in NYC)_

His eyes boggle and his grin is almost painful but he prides himself on the fact that the shock and elation and relief (the thought of never hearing her voice again has been slowly driving him insane for oh, about 28 days) don’t incapacitate him completely for more than a couple of minutes.

///

She re-reads her stupid, _stupid_ , text for the 8th time in the last 2 minutes and rolls her eyes at herself for the 8th consecutive time. Maybe she should’ve also added what she was wearing back then and quoted word for word everything he’d said. Pathetic. She is so not good at this.

_Suddenly it seems like it might be the best one in a good while. – Killian Jones (the guy that has been staring a hole in his phone for the last month)_

Well, maybe she isn’t so bad after all.


End file.
